


30 Days OTP Challenge

by moonblossom



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 30 Days OTP Challenge, Fluff, M/M, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-30
Packaged: 2017-11-23 06:32:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 23,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/619120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thirty small separate stories featuring John and Sherlock, using <a href="http://ericandy.tumblr.com/post/26596382488/ericandys-30-day-otp-challenge">these prompts</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day 1 - Holding Hands

**Author's Note:**

> I thought this would be a good way to get back into writing on a more regular schedule and to start 2013. Thirty separate prompts, thirty little ficlets.
> 
> These will be written fairly quickly, and are unbetaed, so if you notice any mistakes or typos please don't hesitate to let me know!

"Hurry, John, he's getting away!"

It's a good thing Sherlock is so tall - it's the only way John can keep up with him, bobbing and weaving through the crowd. He keeps his eyes locked on Sherlock's mass of dark, unruly curls as he ducks between confused bystanders. At one point, Sherlock turns round and John can see his lips moving. Clearly he's expecting John to be standing right there, acting as a sounding board for whatever he's going on about.

The puzzled look on his face is so alien and charming that John grins widely before turning sideways and slinking between a dumpy older woman in a hideous tartan coat and two punks trying to warm themselves over a cup of coffee. He catches up to Sherlock, who huffs irritably.

"I need you next to me, John. Stop falling behind."

John sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. "Not everyone is as fluid or as commanding as you are. People step aside for you - they don't even notice me."

The scowl that darkens Sherlock's features is clear and expressive. _That won't do at all._ Calmly, as if there's nothing remotely strange about it, he grabs John's right hand with his left and laces their fingers tightly together.

"Sherlock! We can't..." The argument is weak and dies in John's throat. He was expecting Sherlock's hand to feel light and cool, frail and birdlike, but instead it's warm and comforting and solid. Somehow, it just feels right. The last time they'd run together like this, that day that John's tried to block from his mind so many times, Sherlock was wearing gloves, and they were both running on pure adrenaline. Never mind the handcuffs. It had felt nothing like _this_.

Impatiently, Sherlock gives John's hand a tug and starts running again, and John snaps out of his reverie, following obediently. Eventually they work their way through the throng, earning only a few whined complaints as they accidentally bump or knock people.

Sherlock halts, eyes scanning the open street at the end of the crowd, but their quarry has evaded them. John frowns for a moment before casting a glance down to his side, where Sherlock's still tightly clenching his hand. He seems to have no intention of letting go, despite the thin veil of necessity that brought them together in the first place, and strangely, John doesn't seem to mind at all.

As if reading his thoughts, Sherlock glances sideways, smirking at John. "It's alright, we'll find him later, or Lestrade will, though I rather doubt the latter." Reassuringly, he squeezes John's hand, and the warmth between them increases tenfold, sending pleasant little shivers up John's arm and across his chest. A strange lopsided grin crosses his face as he squeezes back and Sherlock chuckles quietly before turning to face him properly.

"Ready?" He grins, gesturing towards the general direction of the man they were chasing with their tightly clasped hands.

"Oh god, yes."

And they're off again, fingers still knotted tightly together.


	2. Day 2 - Cuddling Somewhere

The call had come from Lestrade at the ungodly hour of half four in the morning. Strangely, he'd wanted to talk to John instead of Sherlock. John, with his intimate medical familiarity with a wide variety of military-issue knives.

With a groan, John lowers himself to his knees next to the body. He's exhausted - Sherlock was up pacing and muttering all night and the noises kept John from falling into a properly deep sleep. He rubs his eyes and begins examining the wide gash on the victim's neck. One end is sliced clean through, impeccably tidy, while the other end is mangled and rough from a serrated blade. Some kind of combination blade then, and not a very long one.

He's about to get up and move when he feels a heavy pressure across his back and a sharp chin digging into his shoulder. Sherlock's wrapped himself snugly around John's torso and is sliding his hands into John's coat pockets.

"Can I help you with something, Sherlock?"

"Mmf. Cold. Tired. Bored."

Sherlock is a limp weight, nestling his face into the warm curve of John's throat. John looks up to find all the yarders - Lestrade, Donovan, and of course Anderson - staring with expressions that range from amused fondness to abject horror. He grins sheepishly and shrugs as best he can with a six-foot limpet clinging to him. He rises slowly to his knees, pulling Sherlock up with him, and turns his head.

"If you'd gone to bed at a normal hour like a normal human being, you'd be fine right now."

The mumble coming from Sherlock's mouth, a warm puff off breath on John's neck, sounds suspiciously like "Am not normal." John smiles, tucking his own hands into his pockets along with Sherlock's.

"No, you most certainly are not. But I can't work with you distracting me like this." As if on cue, Sherlock burrows in closer, his hipbones digging into John's arse and suddenly his mind is flooded with entirely inappropriate thoughts. John sucks in a long, deep breath through his nose and thinks of mutilated bodies, of the Queen, of Mrs. Hudson in her housecoat.

"Sherlock," he sighs, as Sherlock's fingers start stroking his stomach through his coat pocket. "If you stop, we can finish this sooner and go home."

At the words _go home_ , John feels Sherlock's fingers dip under his waistband, still through the barrier of his coat pocket, and feels his cheeks burn in response. The hoots and jeers of the officers on the scene are a low buzz in the back of his ears, drowned out by the thrum of his own heart.

Sherlock grins, slow and sensuous, against the skin under John's ear before finally pulling away. John feels a rush of cold air against his back and sighs as he turns to discuss his findings with Lestrade.

He'll get back at Sherlock for this as soon as they get back to the flat.


	3. Day 3 - Gaming/Watching a movie (or neither, really...)

_"So, if I heard correctly, Scaramanga got away."_

_"Yes, sir."_

_"In a car that sprouted wings?"_

_"That's perfectly feasible, sir. In fact, we're working on one now."_

_"Oh, Q, shut up!"_

Sherlock slides his head and shoulders further off the sofa where he's been hanging awkwardly, and groans in dismay. "Yes, please, do shut up! John, this movie is ridiculous..."

John grins, stroking the top of Sherlock's foot in a placating gesture. "You did tell me it was up to me to choose one, and this is what I was in the mood for."

Sherlock rolls his eyes in reply, which looks somewhat alarming from his upside-down angle. "Yes, but I didn't realise how boring and... ridiculous your choice would be." A shadow crosses his face at his choice of repeated words. It's as if the movie's mere presence is rotting his brain.

With a grin, John simply raises the volume enough to drown out Sherlock's unending strain of snarky commentary.

Sherlock, deciding this simply will not do, stretches one leg slightly and wriggles his toes so they're firmly ensconced under John's arse. A pinched expression blooms on John's face, but he makes no sign otherwise that he's noticed the intrusion.

Apparently taking this as an invitation to try harder to be a distraction, Sherlock begins reciting lists of things - the elements of the periodic table, Australian serial killers, and (oddly enough) constellations. When this fails to capture John's attention, he starts assembling a precarious tower on the sofa, assembled out of odds and ends within the reach of his awkward position. Magazines, John's RAMC mug, what appears to be a rat's spine (tail included), and the small folding magnifying glasses that seem to move around the flat of their own accord.

When Sherlock attempts to place a pocketknife on the top of the tower, the entire thing topples into John's lap, which seems to be the breaking point.

"Alright! FINE!" Hard enough to make the remote creak, John pauses the movie and turns to look at Sherlock. "It's done, I've stopped it. Now what would you like to do instead?"

Sherlock remains entirely passive and immobile, save a slow grin creeping across his face that makes John think of unhelpful cats and strange potions and crazy queens and card suits.

"We could play Cluedo?"

"Noooo." John groans, face falling into his hands. "Not again, Sherlock. Never again."

Eyes wide and lip tremulous, Sherlock's in full-on shamming mode now.

"But John, I am _so very bored_. I have nothing _at all_ to do!" As he's whining, he pulls himself up from his ridiculous cantilever off the sofa and flops over sideways, so he's leaning across John's chest.

The novelty of having Sherlock invade his personal space so completely and thoroughly still hasn't worn off for John, and he can feel his pulse quickening and his cheeks flushing. Judging by the mischievous glint in Sherlock's pale eyes, this is exactly what he'd intended in the first place.

Exasperated, John grabs him by the shoulders and pulls him closer, lips meeting in a harsh, bruising kiss. He feels Sherlock go soft in his arms as he breaks the kiss, but Sherlock refuses to pull away and grazes his lips across John's cheek.

"You dick, this is what you wanted in the first place, isn't it?" Despite the insult, John's words are throaty and affectionate. "You can just ask, you know. I've never been able to say no to you, you think that's going to change suddenly when you want a snog instead of help at a crime scene?"

There's a low rumble of assent from deep in Sherlock's chest as his gentle fingers trace across the stubble on John's jawline. John groans quietly and goes limp, the forgotten remote falling out of his hand and landing with a heavy thud on the carpet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you didn't recognise it, the movie John was trying to watch was the Bond classic _The Man with the Golden Gun_.


	4. Day 4 - On A Date

It's been three weeks, three glorious whirlwind weeks, since John and Sherlock fell into bed together after a case. Right now they're loosely entangled on the sofa, pliant and sleepy and sated after a quick but satisfying mutual hand job.  
  
"Sherlock?"  
  
Sherlock raises his head - damp curls stuck to his cheek - off of John's chest and quirks an eyebrow, making a questioning noise in the back of his throat.  
  
"I'd like to take you on a date. A proper one. Dinner, maybe the theatre?”  
  
“We go out to dinner all the time.”  
  
“Trying to swallow a greasy takeaway while running after you doesn’t count. Humour me?”  
  
Sherlock lets his head rest gently on John’s chest again, rising and lowering with John’s slow breath.  
  
“This is important to you?”  
  
“Yes, Sherlock, it is.” John smiles and runs his fingers gently through Sherlock’s mussed hair.  
  
“Then John, I would be honoured.”  
  
***  
  
They find time for the first date a few days later. There’s no case on hand, no experiments in process, nothing but leisure time on the calendar for once. John’s humming to himself, lathering up for a good smooth shave, towel wrapped around his hips.  
  
In the kitchen, he can hear Sherlock having a one-sided conversation, and getting increasingly excited about it.  
  
“John, hurry! Lestrade’s found two bodies missing their left hands, and two left hands. But they don’t belong to the bodies!”  
  
John’s face falls, nearly imperceptibly. If he were facing anyone else they probably wouldn’t have noticed, but of course Sherlock does.  
  
“If... I can...” Sherlock looks down at his phone. “Call Lestrade?” John can see the emotions warring behind his eyes - excitement over an interesting case fighting with his strange eagerness to please John.  
  
“Sherlock, it’s fine.” He wipes the last bit of shaving foam from his jaw. “Dinner can wait. Decomposing bodies can’t. Just give me a moment to get dressed.”  
  
John can’t help but smile at the grin that crosses Sherlock’s face as he grabs John by the shoulders and kisses him firmly before ducking back out into the hall.  
  
Oh well, there will be time later.  
  
***  
  
The next time they attempt it, they’ve spent six days tracking down leads and barely eating or sleeping. The case solved, Sherlock boldly announces that they’re going to go home, get changed, and go to dinner.  
  
John trudges up the stairs to the top bedroom, where the bulk of his clothing still is. He’s been sleeping in Sherlock’s bed more often than not lately, but his own is still tidily made and inviting. He strips down out of his tired, dirty jeans and lays his good suit out on the bed.  
  
 _A few minutes nap couldn’t hurt, could it?_ he finds himself thinking. He can hear Sherlock banging around downstairs and the knocking of the pipes that mean the shower’s running. He’s got a moment to just shut his eyes and relax. Sighing with relief, he lowers himself down on the bed next to his suit. Just a few minutes...  
  
When he wakes again, the room is pitch-dark, and there’s a blanket over his body. An innate sixth sense alerts him to a presence in the chair in the corner.  
  
“Sherlock? Wha? What time is it?” John’s voice is bleary and disoriented with sleep. “How long did I nap?”  
  
“Shh, John.” There’s the soft tread of Sherlock crossing the room, a dip in the mattress as he sits down at John’s hip. “It’s about three in the morning. You’ve slept for nearly nine hours. I apologise for not factoring in your need for sleep.”  
  
John sits up and scrubs his face with his hands. “What about our date?”  
  
“It’s fine, John. I cancelled the reservation. Clearly you needed rest more than you needed to go out. I think you should go back to sleep, but might I suggest joining me downstairs?”  
  
Reaching for Sherlock’s proffered hand, John sighs and disentangles himself from the blanket, following his surprisingly thoughtful lover down to the main bedroom.  
  
***  
  
“That’s it, Sherlock. Nothing is going to ruin this date.” John sighs contentedly as he slides into their usual booth at Angelo’s. There’s a candle on the table already. It’s more romantic. Sherlock looks thoughtful as he tucks himself in next to John, instead of across the table.  
  
“Both our phones are muted, Lestrade and Dimmock are on strict orders not to bother me. Nothing will interrupt this time, John. I assure you.”  
  
They sit in quiet contentment for a while, simply enjoying each others’ presence. Angelo doesn’t even bother bringing them the menu, smiling from a distance while they stare into each other’s eyes in a way most people would find nauseating. He’s opening a bottle of wine when the phone rings. He answers it, nods a couple of times, and frowns.  
  
When he walks up to the table empty-handed, Sherlock glares sharply at him.  
  
“Angelo, I do hope you’re not interrupting us for something.”  
  
He smiles awkwardly and stares at the floor.  
  
“I’m so sorry, boys. It’s your landlady - she’s locked herself out and need you to go let her in. But Billy’s making you some takeaway containers.”  
  
John sighs, a low whistling exhalation through his teeth. Sherlock’s about to stand up when John reaches over and puts a calming hand on his shoulder.  
  
“Sherlock, relax. It’s nobody’s fault. Angelo was right to let us know. We can’t let her stay outside the flat for two hours in this weather at her age, she’ll catch something.” Shrugging resignedly, he looks up at Angelo. “Thanks for letting us know. And thank you for the food.”  
  
Sherlock snatches the bag of takeaway containers from Billy, who’s materialised at his elbow, before huffing loudly and storming out of the restaurant, leaving John to thank them again.  
  
***  
  
Safely ensconced in the warmth of the upstairs flat, Mrs. Hudson rescued and tucked in downstairs, John flops despondently into his armchair.  
  
“I think the universe is trying to tell us something, Sherlock. Maybe we’re just not meant to go on dates.”  
  
The look of panic and confusion that flickers across Sherlock’s face is clear.  
  
“No, god no, Sherlock. I’m not...” John sighs. “C’mere.” He grabs Sherlock’s slender wrist and tugs him closer to the chair, where he perches, crane-like, on the arm rest. “I’m not suggesting we break things off or whatever. Just acknowledging that maybe our lifestyles aren’t suited to normal dating routines.”  
  
Sherlock, from his awkward perch on the chair, looks pensive. “You look cold, John. Why don’t you go take a shower and relax a bit?”  
  
John laughs, pleasantly startled by Sherlock’s thoughtful response to his observation. “Yeah, thanks, Sherlock. I think I will do that. I’ll be back in a few.”  
  
***  
  
Stepping out of the warmth of the shower, John catches a whiff of something strangely familiar. Tomatoes, basil, garlic, and... sulphur? _What on earth?_ Wrapping himself quickly in a towel, he ducks from the bathroom into the hallway, and runs towards the kitchen, still dripping.  
  
Laid out on the kitchen table - alarmingly free of clutter and lab equipment - are the dishes from Angelo’s, carefully re-heated and laid out on clean plates. The source of the sulphur smell becomes apparent too; there are three tall thin taper candles in the centre of the table.  
  
Sherlock is standing awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen, glaring at John’s dripping form.  
  
“The least you could have done is had the decency to dress up a little, John.”  
  
Suddenly overwhelmed, John giggles to loosen the tightness in his throat. Sherlock’s gone and done all this - for him. A quick glance into the living room, John sees a pile of DVDs, a blanket, and a container of popcorn all waiting on the sofa. Clearly this date is meant to include a movie too. Sherlock’s really gone all-out, and John doesn’t know quite how to react.  
  
Awkwardly, he adjusts his towel, where it’s slowly creeping down off his hips. He catches Sherlock staring and grins. “If we’re doing this right, Sherlock, you don’t get to see any of that until we’ve had a proper dinner and watched a movie.”  
  
He scowls slightly, but relaxes into a quiet huff of laughter.  
  
Towel re-cinched, John marches across the kitchen and wraps his arms tightly around Sherlock’s waist. If he minds the dampness, he makes a point of not mentioning it.  
  
“I know it’s not exactly what you wanted, John. But I hope-” He’s silenced as John presses his lips firmly against his, the kiss chaste but warm and loving. John pulls away and they’re both slightly flushed.  
  
“Shut up, Sherlock. It’s perfect. Let me just go get dressed.”  
  
As he pulls away, Sherlock frowns slightly. John traces his fingers over Sherlock’s full lower lip.  
  
“What’s wrong?”  
  
He glances down at the towel. “You could just stay like that. I don’t actually mind.”  
  
Chuckling, John rolls his eyes.  
  
“Nope. A date’s a date. Part of that is dressing up nice. Sorry.”


	5. Day 5 - Kissing

It’s a quiet Saturday morning. The sun is bright and clear, shining in through the bedroom window, and they’ve got no reason to get out of bed any time soon. John wakes first, rolling over to take in the sight of Sherlock, dark hair gilded by the sunlight and face slack and content with sleep. It’s a rare gift, seeing Sherlock like this, and John cherishes it.

Still asleep, Sherlock purses his lips, tip of his tongue darting out briefly, and John loses what modicum of self-control he had, swooping in to wake Sherlock with a gentle kiss.

Though he likes a good hard shag as much as the next bloke, John could spend hours just kissing. Soft and slow, curled up on the sofa, running from the barest brush of lips to a desperate interplay of tongues. He’s always enjoyed it. But kissing Sherlock, _Sherlock_ , has elevated it to an entirely new level.

To take that sharp tongue, those full lips, so often the source of barbed words and snapped insults, and to kiss them into submission. To feel them succumb, to bend to John’s whims; it’s a heady, powerful feeling.

To John’s pleased surprise, Sherlock seems to find it equally enjoyable. At first, John expected Sherlock to kiss perfunctorily – a tedious necessity to humour John before moving on to bigger and better things. Luckily for John though, however short Sherlock’s attention span may be, once he’s found something he enjoys doing, he can fixate on it for hours.

Sherlock wakes slowly, pressing his lips against John’s and parting them slightly, without ever having opened his eyes. John is sure it’s an act, sure Sherlock is entirely alert and has calculated dozens of variables and scenarios before determining it’s safe to act passive and sleepy. Taking Sherlock’s parted lips as an invitation, John shifts his weight so he’s straddling Sherlock’s hips, runs both hands up through his disordered curls, and gently slips his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth.

He’s rewarded with a low, muffled moan, and a subtle shift of Sherlock’s hips, still pinned beneath his own. Sherlock’s hands find their way to the small of John’s back, the exposed sliver between his pants and the vest he’d slept in. His fingers are soft and warm, tracing abstract patterns against John’s skin. Hungrily, John deepens the kiss, tongue coiling roughly against Sherlock’s as his teeth graze Sherlock’s full lower lip.

He pulls back ever so slightly, breaking the kiss, but remaining close enough to feel the quick, warm puffs of Sherlock’s breath against his mouth. John fists his hands, tugging gently on Sherlock’s hair, and opens his eyes. Sherlock’s eyes are open too – hungry and wide, pupils dilated, and John is overcome with desire. Closing his eyes, he dips his head again, closing the distance and pulling Sherlock’s lower lip back between his own. He drags his teeth over the swollen surface, sucking on the engorged flesh and drawing another low moan out of Sherlock. John releases Sherlock’s lip, places one gentle, delicate kiss on the soft skin just below it, and then slips his tongue back into the welcoming heat of Sherlock’s mouth.

Whimpering, Sherlock hardens his tongue against John’s, shifting the dynamic of the kiss as he penetrates John’s mouth. John feels his cock twitch in response, his flagging morning erection back in full force, but has no compulsion to do anything about it just yet. He can feel Sherlock responding in kind beneath him, hips rocking slightly and erratically, but he seems content not pushing things either, and John smiles softly, lips stretching around Sherlock’s invading tongue. Later – not _too_ much later – there will be time to take them both in hand, relieve the throbbing ache, but for now, this is just perfect.


	6. Day 6 - Wearing Each Other's Clothes

The doorbell is whining and insistent, a long constant stream of shrill buzzing. Sherlock rolls onto his back and flops an arm over his face, gently elbowing John in the ribs. John merely grunts and rolls away. They had a late night, running through London after a lead that went nowhere, and then falling into bed together for a prolonged round of rough, adrenaline-fueled sex. Neither of them are particularly keen to get up right now.

"Blasted Mrs. Hudson, why doesn't she let them in?" Sherlock groans.

"She's gone for the weekend, Sherlock. Why do you think I didn't ask you to shut up last night? You were shouting to wake the dead."

Sherlock smiles slightly, reminiscing, and relishing the dull ache everywhere south of his waist.

The drone of the doorbell tapers off, only to be replaced with the ringing of Sherlock's mobile. Hatefully, he glares at the screen.

"It's Lestrade."

"Answer it, Sherlock. He's probably got a new lead on the case from yesterday."

With a huff, he answers the call. Of course it's Lestrade. Of course he needs them _right now._ Sherlock tries to remember the last time he'd been more keen on a lie-in than solving a case. Damn John for skewing his priorities.

"Alright, alright, Lestrade. Stop barking. We'll be down in a moment."

He pauses, cocking his head.

"What? No! Don't come up! We'll be right there!"

Eyes wide, he ends the call and lobs the mobile in John's general direction.

"Hurry, John. He said if we're not down in three minutes, he's going to kick in the door and come up."

John groans, rubbing his hands through his hair. Capitulating, they both disentangle themselves from the bedclothes. Rushing now, Sherlock scrabbles through the pile of clothing on the floor and grabs a pair of trousers, pulling them up over his hips. There's something a bit odd about the fit, but he doesn't have time to think too much about it. Must be something to do with the fact that John's been forcing him to eat more regularly.

It's only when he stands up and turns to face John that Sherlock realises there's something more serious wrong. John's biting his lip and his shoulders are shaking violently, an attempt to silence the laughter clearly welling up inside him.

Sherlock scowls. "What?!"

John lets out a rather unbecoming snort and gestures vaguely in the direction of Sherlock's legs. "I... Sherlock... I don't think..." The rest of his words are swallowed with by giggles.

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock storms to the mirror in the far corner of his room. As soon as he takes in the image, he loses it as well, barking out a low laugh. The trousers fit reasonably well around his waist, if a bit low on his hips. However, as his eyes cast downwards, he's treated to the view of nearly six inches of awkward, bony ankle and muscled calf.

"John, I suspect these are your trousers." He manages to say it with a straight face, but as soon as he's got it out, John convulses in another cascade of laughter, and Sherlock loses it too.

"Great--" John gasps out between guffaws. "Great deduction there."

Fumbling with the zip, Sherlock manages to extricate himself from the wrong trousers and tosses them playfully at John, who's at least been able to put a shirt on during all this nonsense. Unfortunately, they've lost track of time and Lestrade - true to his word - forced the door open and stormed upstairs. He's apparently followed the source of the noise, and barges into the bedroom just in time to get a faceful of flying trousers.

"I don't even want to know, you two. Just hurry up and get dressed, already."


	7. Day 7 - (Sort of) Cosplaying

"Sherlock! Sherlock, c'mere!" John's voice is rife with amusement. Sherlock peers over, studying the book held open on the table.

"The Adventures of Sheridan Hope? What is this nonsense, John?"

"It's a collection of old mystery stories, but that's not what's important. Look at this picture!"

John points to a pen-and-ink drawing in the middle of the page, of a man with sharp, intelligent features and dark hair. He's wearing a Victorian-style Inverness coat and a deerstalker cap. Sherlock studies the illustration, but without context he's not sure what John's expecting him to notice. He looks up, raising a quizzical eyebrow.

"What about it, John? You're being charmingly obtuse."

"Oh shut it. He looks just like you, Sherlock."

"I fail to see the resemblance." Sherlock sniffs, staring at the drawing again. Maybe the cheekbones are a bit sharper than normal, the nose a bit repoussé, but that's where the similarities end.

"He's even wearing the hat!"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "For the last time, that's _not my hat_!"

John grins, undaunted. "You should dress up like this picture and let me take a photo. For the blog. Your coat would work well enough; it's kind of tweedy and old-looking."

"Absolutely not, John. We want people to take the blog seriously, don't we?"

"Come on, just put the hat on. I've got an old pipe somewhere."

Sherlock glowers, about to refuse again, but the look on John's face is too endearing. With a hugely put-upon and theatrical sigh, he relents.

"Fine, but just one photo. And... not for the blog. Just for you."

Beaming, John runs upstairs to find the old pipe and the little digital camera they keep around for reference while Sherlock rummages through boxes for that damnable hat.

While waiting for John to come back downstairs, Sherlock flips idly through the book, stumbling upon another illustration, this one of Sheridan with another familiar-looking man, one apparently named Ormond Sacker. He muses briefly about the absurdity of the names in the book as he hears John thumping excitedly down the stairs.

"John, did you see this other man? Dr. Sacker? He looks a bit like you."

John peers over Sherlock's shoulder, taking in the drawing.

"Isn't that odd, he does a bit. I like his moustache. Do you think I sh--"

Sherlock spins around in the chair, staring John in the face. "No, absolutely not." Seeing John's face deflate, he backpedals quickly. "You don't need it, you're handsome just as you are, John."

Clearly he's said the right thing, because John's scowl softens into a smile, one that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle endearingly.

"You git. Thank you. Now hurry up and put the bloody hat on - I don't want you changing your mind."

With a grimace, Sherlock puts the stupid hat on and pinches the end of the pipe between his teeth while shrugging into his coat. He holds still long enough to let John snap two photos in quick succession. The goofy grin on John's face is more than worth the few minutes of awkward discomfort, but when John puts the camera away, Sherlock is more than happy to take the hat off and fling it across the sitting room.

"Thank you, Sherlock. I promise nobody else will see these."

And if Sherlock finds two ratty prints of himself dressed in a silly costume, years later, while rummaging through John's wallet, well, he doesn't mention it to anyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let us just assume the books got published with those rather unfortunate original draft names, and contain illustrations that bear a startling resemblance to our actors.
> 
> And if you're wondering why Sherlock is so adamant about John not growing a moustache, [this is why](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m46go0Crvf1r43418o1_500.jpg).


	8. Day 8 - Shopping

Groaning, John pours the last of a container of sour-smelling milk down the drain. He opens the breadbox, staring forlornly at the sad little pile of crumbs that are all that remain of the last loaf. The fridge is nearly empty, even the shelf at the bottom where Sherlock keeps his experiments.

He turns to Sherlock, who is sitting at the kitchen table, flipping disinterestedly through the newspaper.

"I need to go shopping. Do you need anything?"

Sherlock springs up from his chair, a vaguely manic grin on his face. "Excellent, I do too."

John blinks, perplexed. "Just tell me what you need; we don't both have to go." Sherlock is such a nuisance at the supermarket, it’s much easier to just convince him to stay put.

"Well I'm not sure what Molly's got in today, I'd liked to browse a bit first."

"...Molly? Sherlock, nicking things from the morgue is not shopping. And the idea that you _browse_ through bits of bodies before making a choice is completely disturbing."

Sherlock furrows his brow. "When you go shopping, don't you pick and choose based on freshness, and what strikes your inspiration from the varied selection?"

John sinks into his chair. "Sherlock, I am getting a mental picture of you squeezing eyeballs to test for freshness, holding up several different hands to compare weight and texture." He sighs, rubbing his eyes. "Please, for the love of God, tell me that's not what happens."

Sherlock makes a point of studying a water-spot on the ceiling, clearly avoiding answering the question. John's surprised he hasn't started whistling innocently.

"No, you know what. You're coming with me, to the Asda, and then I'm coming with you. To the morgue. Because apparently, you need supervision."

The smile on Sherlock's face is entirely inappropriate to someone about to go select body parts, but John finds himself grinning in return nonetheless.

He gets up from his chair, slipping into his jacket. “All right then, come on.”


	9. Day 9 - Hanging out with Friends

"I still don't see why you agreed to this, John." Sherlock grumbles, pushing open the door to the pub.

" _I_ agreed to it because I genuinely like Greg. And I know you do too, somewhere in that shrivelled little heart of yours." Fondly, John pokes Sherlock in the chest, and Sherlock feels a subtle warmth radiating from the tip of his finger. "And I assume you agreed to it out of some misguided attempt to please me." Chuckling, he ducks around Sherlock and steps into the pub.

The warm light from inside the small room gilds John's hair, bringing out the gold tones, and Sherlock stuffs his hands into his pockets in an attempt to prevent himself from reaching out and ruffling it. He's still not entirely sure what sorts of gestures are acceptable to John in public.

They catch Greg's eye in the far corner of the room and jostle their way through the crowd.

A couple of times people elbow John, accidentally, and at one point some man's hand strokes across his arse, and Sherlock's sure that one _wasn't_ an accident, but he holds his tongue and keeps walking, not wanting to create a scene for once.

They settle down at the table, and Greg's already got a pint of Boddington's waiting for John. He shrugs at Sherlock.

"Sorry, Sherlock, didn't know what you'd want."

"I'll have one of those, I guess." He eyes John's glass warily.

John chuckles. "You'll have to go ask for one."

"Why can't you go get it for me?"

"What, and leave you and Greg alone to talk about me? Lord knows what you'd get into - I'll either come back to a discussion of some gruesome murder or you subjecting him to intimate details of our sex life. No thanks, Sherlock. Besides, I fetch enough shit for you at home. You can go order one, it'll be good for you. Go pretend to flirt with the barmaid or something."

Sherlock blinks, genuinely perplexed. "But... won't that make you jealous? What could I stand to gain from it?"

"You're handsome, Sherlock. And I'm not just saying that because I'm biased." John looks to Greg for confirmation, and he just shakes his head in silent laughter. "You could probably get a free pint or two if you sham enough. And besides, I'm confident enough to know you're not going anywhere, even if I wanted you to."

As Sherlock stalks off to the bar, John admires the view for a moment before turning back to Greg.

"Sorry about that."

"No worries, mate. I honestly can't believe you agreed to get him to come hang out in a pub. What'd you have to bribe him with?"

John flushes, promises of a protracted blow job and a trip to a sex shop flooding his memory. "I'm..." he pauses. "I'm not sure you want to know."

Greg cocks his head, confused. "Did you tell him you'd let him put a head in the fridge again or something?"

John coughs and cringes. "No, that's not what I meant..."

Sudden realisation dawns on Greg's face, and he shudders. It's clear he's torn between blocking his ears and asking for more details when Sherlock comes back from the bar, pint in hand. He's also carrying a glass of what looks like scotch and a cocktail napkin with a mobile number written on it in a girlish hand. John looks questioningly up at him.

"Your suggestion worked, John. I got a glass of scotch and an invitation - for the both of us, mind you - to join her at her flat tonight." The look of consternation on Sherlock's face is priceless, and both John and Greg burst out laughing in unison.

"I'm glad you two Neanderthals find it amusing. I feel like I need a shower. You should have heard what she suggested."

At this, Greg perks up again, leaning across the table. "Do tell! Some of us are bored and lonely at night."

John elbows Greg playfully in the ribs and Sherlock finds himself grinning - wide and genuine - despite the absurdity of the evening.

"Greg, why don't you go chat her up? Her name is Debbie, she's got two cats, a flatmate who's never around, and during the day she's studying art history."

Greg nods admiringly. "She told you all that, did she?"

Sherlock snorts, waving dismissively. "Not in so many words, no. It's obvious though, if you know where to look. Go on then, if she was so keen on John and myself, I'm sure she'd at least consider you."

John splutters a mouthful of the drink he's just taken and Greg rolls his eyes.

"Thank you for the vote of confidence, Sherlock." But despite his apparent misgivings, Greg gets up and heads towards the bar.

Sherlock turns to see John staring pensively at him. He reaches out, stroking Sherlock's knee under the table.

"That was a nice thing you did, Sherlock. I'm glad you came out, tonight."

He smiles, reaching up to stroke John's cheek briefly, pulling away before anyone has time to notice. If John minds, he hides it well. Maybe he's more receptive to this sort of thing than Sherlock assumed initially. Definitely bears further experimentation.

"Surprisingly enough, John, I'm glad too. We should do it again sometime."


	10. Day 10 - With Animal Ears

Glowering, Sherlock storms into the kitchen and tosses a box onto the table. John notices with alarm that the box is leaking white powder all over everything. Reading the expression on his face, Sherlock waves dismissively.

"It's just salt. Oh, also, Lestrade is an idiot."

John crosses the kitchen in a few quick strides and rests a soothing hand on Sherlock's shoulder as he throws himself irritably into a chair. Sherlock doesn't shrug it away, which John takes as a good sign.

"Really John. What sort of imbecile..." he trails off, rant cut short as he opens the box. John peers over his shoulder and gasps at the pair of human ears nestled in the boxful of salt.

"Ugh, Sherlock. Why is there a box of salt on our table?"

Sherlock leans back in the chair, head resting against John's chest, and huffs out an indignant sigh.

"It's a box of ears, John. The salt is just the curing medium. And Lestrade-" he spits the name out disdainfully, clearly the DI has done something to lose Sherlock's mercurial favour, "assumed it was nothing more than a stupid school prank. These ears have been torn off, not removed surgically. And what sort of student would resort to _salt_ of all things? Obviously these belonged to two separate victims, and were sent as a message."

John squeezes Sherlock's shoulder reassuringly, smiling to himself when he feels the tense muscle relax slightly.

"Well, I'm sure you can figure out where they came from, and why they were sent."

Huffing, Sherlock nods at his phone, a strip of sent text messages still visible on the screen.

"I already have. It was insufferably dull, and an enormous waste of my time."

John bends slightly, so his chin is resting at Sherlock's shoulder.

"Why, then, did you bring that revolting box into my kitchen?" His voice is deep and quiet, a huff of breath curling against Sherlock's ear. John's fully aware of the sudden shift in Sherlock's body language, the way he tilts his head slightly, leaning into John, and the minute uptick in his respiration, but he says nothing.

"I..." Sherlock trails off, astoundingly at a loss for words.

Impishly, John darts his tongue out, delicately tracing the shell of Sherlock's helix. Sherlock whimpers quietly, stammering in a valiant attempt at completing his sentence.

"-was going... experi- hnggh."

John's tongue has found its way to the sensitive nub of Sherlock's tragus, and he flicks it with the tip.

"I do hope, Sherlock..." his voice is barely a murmur, a vibration against the warm skin of Sherlock's ear, "that you weren't planning on conducting any experiments on those any time soon. I've got other plans for you tonight."

Gulping, Sherlock makes a point of shoving the box off the table, where it spills out with a flat thud. Any other time, the deliberate mess, the salt across the floor, would infuriate John, but right now he takes great satisfaction in the gesture.

He pulls Sherlock's earlobe between his lips and grazes it lightly with his teeth. "Bedroom. Now." he whispers, the soft pad of flesh still in his mouth. He bites down just enough to tug the earlobe as Sherlock nods his assent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Humans are totally animals, right?
> 
> Honestly, I just couldn't pass up an opportunity to throw in a canon story. XD


	11. Day 11 - Wearing Kigurumis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, this got a bit meta. And more than a bit silly.

“Sherlock, look, Molly’s sent us something from Japan.” John walks into the sitting room carrying an unreasonably large cardboard box. Sherlock looks up from his curled-up position on the sofa, and eyes the box askance.  
  
“Molly’s in Japan? When? Why?”  
  
John nudges Sherlock’s feet out of the way and settles down onto the sofa, dropping the box on the coffee table in front of them.  
  
“Honestly, Sherlock, do you just ignore everything that poor woman says? She’s been talking about this trip for months. She’s gone to some conference in Tokyo, but apparently she found time to go shopping too.”  
  
Sherlock huffs, curling back up into a ball. “Not _everything_. Just the useless things. When is she coming back?”  
  
“Next week, you can go back to manipulating her for body parts in no time.” With a surgeon’s precision, John slices open the tape holding the box shut. The inside is crammed full of nauseatingly adorable knick-knacks, brightly patterned adhesive tape, decorative chopsticks, and candies in a variety of alarming day-glo colours. There’s a letter tucked in amongst the overwhelming neon clutter.  
  
John unfolds it and reads it aloud, much to Sherlock’s dismay.  


* * *

_Hi Sherlock and John!_

_Tokyo is very exciting! Everything here is bright and noisy, and there are so many people everywhere. I thought London was crowded, but it’s nothing compared to  here. The conference is going alright, I suppose, but the stores make up for it. The dollar stores here are full of such cute things! I couldn’t resist, I got stuff for everyone. I hope you like it._  
  
 _The two big things at the bottom are called kigurumi (I hope I spelt that right!). They reminded me of you two. You’ll see why! I can’t wait to see you in them, maybe we could Skype when you get this?!_  
  
 _Luv,_  
 _Molly._

* * *

“Good lord, John. She writes like she talks. No filter.” Sherlock sits up, peering curiously into the box.  
  
“I wonder what those kigu-things are.” John furrows his brow and rummages through the box, finding two soft, cellophane-wrapped packages. Stuck to the front of each are labels, replete with glittering ribbons and fluffy kittens. John and Sherlock’s names are written on their corresponding packages, in Molly’s girlish printing. Cringing, John tosses Sherlock’s package at him and stares down at his own.  
  
Warily, John tears the tape holding the bag shut, and pulls out what seems to be a beige hooded jumper at first. When he unfolds it though, the reality sets in.  
  
“Christ, Sherlock. She got us onesies. Adult-sized onesies.”  
  
Alarmed now, Sherlock sits up straight and tears into his package. “Surely not. Maybe she got one for you, you’re small enough. She must have got me something else.”  
  
Sadly, Sherlock’s assumption, for once, is entirely wrong. His one-piece jumpsuit is a different colour of fleece - chocolate brown instead of tawny beige - but seems to be the same basic construction as John’s. Unfolding it further, he notices something else.  
  
“Ears, John. There are _ears_ on this thing.” He opens it entirely and stands, holding it in front of his torso. Not only does it have ears, but there’s a cutesy smiling face with rounded cheeks at the top of the hood, and what appears to be a long, broad tail at the back.  
  
John stares at it open-mouthed for a moment before coughing out a strangled laugh. “I think it’s supposed to be an otter.” Snickering, he unfolds his own completely, studying it. The face is similarly vague and cute, but the back of the body is sewn in distinct zigzag lines, like some sort of stripes or spines. He holds it up questioningly. “Any ideas, Sherlock?”  
  
It’s Sherlock’s turn to laugh now. “I think it’s supposed to be a hedgehog. Why on earth did she send us these?”  
  
Realisation dawns on John’s face. “It’s that bloody internet site. The one where those fangirls are constantly comparing us to cute animals.” He grins, despite himself. “Figures Molly would hang out there.”  
  
Sherlock holds the otter-costume- _thing_ out at arm’s length, glaring at it with distaste. “I hope she doesn’t actually expect us to wear these ridiculous things.”  
  
As he’s holding it out, John happens to notice the price tag. 78,00 yen. He frowns. That's a fair bit of money for an impulsive joke gift.  
  
“Sherlock, these ‘ridiculous things’ weren’t cheap. I  have no idea what possessed her, but the least we can do is put them on and snap a photo for her. She meant well.”  
  
“Fine, but just the photo. No Skype.” Sherlock is adamant.  
  
John nods. With grim determination, he slips the kigurumi over his trousers and zips it up, pulling the hood up onto his head. Surprisingly, it’s actually pretty comfortable.  
  
“Try yours on, Sherlock. It’s quite warm.”  
  
The look on Sherlock’s face is impossible to place, even for John, who’s become an expert at reading his bizarre expressions. It’s a strange combination of exasperation and irritation, which are both very familiar, and a sort of amused fondness that is far less common. Apparently the idea of John in a giant hedgehog costume tickles Sherlock on a level that he’s never going to admit.  
  
“Well go on then, don’t just stand there gawping at me.” John gestures at the otter kigurumi, still dangling from Sherlock’s fingers.  
  
With a chagrined groan, Sherlock steps into the costume. Clearly it was made for Japanese-sized people, and for once John is thankful for his relatively diminutive size. On Sherlock, the onesie goes from “twee and silly” to “completely and utterly absurd.” The elastic cuffs on the legs have hiked his trousers up, exposing his pale ankles by several inches, and the sleeves - which nearly covered John’s hands - are closer to three-quarter length on Sherlock. The contrast between his toned, elegant forearms and the brown fleece suit prove too much for John, and he snorts out an abortive laugh.  
  
Seeing the pained look on Sherlock’s face, he manages to stifle the rest of it.  
  
“Thank you for trying, Sherlock. Now just try to smile.” John pads around the coffee table until he’s standing next to Sherlock, and wraps a comforting arm around his waist. With his other hand, he pulls out his mobile and fusses for a moment until he gets the camera application working.  
  
He manages to snap a couple, and the pained grimace on Sherlock’s face - all the more comical beneath the otter’s goofy grin - could theoretically pass for a smile in the last one, so John saves it. He’s barely had time to text the end result to Molly before Sherlock’s managed to extricate himself from his fleecy torment, and has balled it up and wedged it behind the sofa.  
  
Chuckling, John sheds the hedgehog one and tosses it into the gap along with Sherlock’s. He leans over, pressing a quick, light kiss to Sherlock’s cheek.  
  
“Thank you for doing that, Sherlock. Molly’s going to be thrilled.”  
  
Scowling, Sherlock nods at John. “Let us never speak of it again. And you owe me, John. Massively.”  
  
There’s an impish glint in John’s eye when he nods back. He wraps his arms around Sherlock’s waist, slipping his fingers into one of the back pockets of Sherlock’s trousers. “I’m sure I can come up with a way to repay you at some point.”


	12. Day 12 - Making Out

It's cold and damp, and John's lost track of what time it is, but the sky outside is a flat, inky black, and even the perpetually crowded streets of London are quieter than usual, so he estimates sometime in that limbo hour between three and four in the morning. Sherlock's finally brought a case to the close, and miraculously managed summon a taxicab, despite the hour.

They tumble in, Sherlock nudging John towards the side of the car as he throws himself onto the bench. Tired and chilled to the bone, John leans into Sherlock's comforting warmth. In an unspoken but welcome gesture, Sherlock pulls his coat open and wraps it around John's shoulders. He doesn't look down, but his arm slides around John's waist, fingers splayed across his lower back.

Warm now, John relaxes and feels the familiar stirrings of unfulfilled want. He nuzzles his head into the crook of Sherlock's neck. Somehow he's removed his scarf without John noticing, and John takes it as an implicit invitation. John's learnt that when he's absorbed with work Sherlock is generally too focused to be distracted by the pleasures of the flesh, but once he's wrapped up a case he'll welcome John's attentions again with open arms.

With a noise that's not quite a contented sigh and not quite an anticipatory moan, John presses his lips to the taut cable of tendon at Sherlock's neck, revelling in the shudder he draws from Sherlock.

Sherlock shifts his weight slightly, angling his body and leaning against the door of the cab, allowing John to wriggle into the space left there, so they're close to facing each other. John nips lightly at Sherlock's neck, marring the pale flesh, and he's rewarded with a groan reverberating from deep in Sherlock's chest.

As John traces the tip of his tongue up along Sherlock's neck, Sherlock runs his long fingers through the fine strands of John's hair. With deliberate slowness, John brushes his sensitive lips along the strong line of Sherlock's jaw, luxuriating in the faint roughness of the stubble he finds there. In the rush to work this morning, he must have neglected to shave, something he doesn't do often, so John savours the sensation while he can.

Impatiently, Sherlock grips the fine hairs at the base of John's skull and guides his head, forcing their lips together. John's startled gasp is swallowed by Sherlock, his clever tongue eagerly parting John's lips and slipping into his mouth.

Overcome, John melts into the kiss, and wraps his arms around Sherlock's waist, inside the ensconcing warmth of the coat. He groans at the sudden rush of blood southward as he slips his fingers into the waistband of Sherlock's trousers. He's about to slide one hand into his pants to grab that luscious arse when he's startled by a sharp thump. Abruptly, they pull apart and turn towards the partition in the cab, only to be greeted by the irritated glare of the poor cabbie. He thumps the partition again and points out the side window, the front door of 221 Baker Street clearly visible.

Flustered and embarrassed, John pulls away from Sherlock and attempts to straighten his hair and clothing. Sherlock appears entirely unperturbed and slides coolly out of the taxicab, tosses a twenty quid note at the cabbie, and darts to the front door. Normally John would be irritated at Sherlock running off like this, but he suspects Sherlock is anxious for the same thing he is. Discreetly, he attempts to adjust himself inside his trousers, and with a sheepish nod to the poor cabbie, he follows Sherlock eagerly up into the flat.


	13. Day 13 - Eating Ice Cream

The sunlight glints off the glass case, the jewel-like colours gleaming inside. Sherlock leans against the wall as John hovers hesitantly in front of the display for what feels like hours, before stopping in front of the rich deep red one.

“Raspberry, please?”

With a smile, the clerk serves him a small bowl of the creamy gelato. John nods his thanks, pays, and turns to Sherlock.

“You sure you don’t want some?”

Sherlock scoffs and shakes his head. “Children’s food, John.”

John shrugs. “Your loss.”

Sherlock drops himself into a flimsy plastic chair on the little patio outside the ice cream parlour, and John follows suit. Once he’s seated, he digs into the cup with gusto, pulling out a large spoonful. Sherlock’s staring off into the mid-distance, lost in thought, but a startlingly erotic moan shocks him back to the present. His eyes snap back to John. John, with his eyes closed, tongue furled around the spoon, an expression of sheer bliss on his face.

Another guttural noise emanates from John’s throat, and Sherlock’s body reacts to it, much against his will. He feels his pulse speeding up, warmth creeping up his throat. John slips lower into his chair, body utterly pliant and relaxed, and slips the spoon in and out of lips repeatedly.

Shifting in his chair, Sherlock feels the steady rush of blood, his prick thickening in response to the lewd picture John’s painting.

“John…” He hisses sharply. “Stop that. We’re in public.”

John draws the spoon – now empty – from his mouth in a determined and slow gesture, and places it purposefully into the cup. He looks up, eyes wide, the picture of innocence.

“Stop what, Sherlock? I’m just at an ice cream shop. Eating my ice cream.”

John blinks emphatically, and Sherlock finds himself marvelling at the rich lushness of his eyelashes, uncommon and patently unjust on such a fair-haired man. Since he’s playing stubborn, Sherlock decides it’s time for a bit of payback. Sliding one hand into his lap in an attempt to subdue his erection, he slides his other hand across the table to rest on John’s.

Dropping his voice to the deepest end of its register, Sherlock purrs. “That must be some incredibly delicious ice cream, then. Give me a bite.”

“You should have ordered your own.” John teases, his voice rough and breathy, but he acquiesces and holds a spoonful out to Sherlock. Rather than taking the spoon from John’s hand, Sherlock opens his mouth, runs his tongue across his lower lip, and takes the proffered bite into his mouth. If John’s moan was erotic, then the moan Sherlock lets out is downright pornographic.

He takes a moment to savour the ice cream, and finds himself admitting that despite the playful charade, it’s actually quite delicious. The creamy texture melts against his tongue; the flavour’s a sweet berry note with a crisp tartness that explodes as he swallows the cold mouthful. Suddenly, Sherlock’s mind is filled with the idea of sucking another dollop of it directly off of John’s tongue, and this time the moan he lets out is entirely genuine.

 Flustered, he pulls away from the spoon and meet’s John’s gaze. His pupils are wide, eyes alert under hooded lids. There’s a familiar flush across his face, and Sherlock understands that John’s little game has gotten out of hand for them both.

Swallowing thickly, Sherlock smirks lasciviously at John. “Time to head home, maybe?”

John nods, and then pauses thoughtfully. “Let me just duck inside and grab a pint to go.”


	14. Day 14 - Genderswap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is crack, and sort of pensive fluff, and a mild comment on how women are viewed in society, and a lead-in to porn, all in 1300 words. I have no idea what happened.

John grabs his mug off the counter and swallows a huge gulp, only to find it revoltingly bitter and strangely lumpy. Retching, he spits in the sink and puts the cup down with a groan.

“Sherlock, what the bloody hell was in my mug?”

Sherlock’s face pales, a startling image on someone with such fair skin to start with. John feels his stomach sink.

“Oh god, Sherlock. What was in there? Do I have to call poison control? How many bloody times have I asked you not to put experiments in my fucking cups?”

As if to compose himself, Sherlock runs his hands through his hair before speaking. “It’s not toxic, John, I’m sure of that. It’s just... not entirely finished either, and there may be some unintended side-effects. You might want to go lie down for a bit.”

"It's a good thing I love you, Sherlock, or I'd have killed you by now, and no jury in the world would convict me." Still grumbling under his breath, John stomps down the hall. He finds himself yawning, and suddenly a nap doesn't seem like such a bad idea after all. With a resigned sigh, he settles into bed and curls up, promising himself he'll only rest for a half hour or so.

When John wakes up, he's strangely disoriented, unsure if he's slept for thirty minutes or thirty hours, and something about the bed feels strange. Rolling over, he's startling aware of a bizarre emptiness between his legs, and rolling onto his chest causes a wave of completely novel discomforts.

Rolling onto his back and breathing deeply to dispel the waves of nauseated panic roiling through his stomach, John grips the sheet. There's _no way_ what he's imagining has actually happened. Attempting to laugh off his silly imaginings, he peels the sheet away, only to be gripped with another wave of shock. There are breasts there. Really and truly. Groaning, John sits up, feet planted firmly on the floor to counteract the dizziness.

John drops his head... _her head…_ and buries it in her hands before letting out a bellow of frustration. She's startled into silence at the high register of the scream, so foreign and strange-sounding. The bellow brings Sherlock running, before John's really had time to process the full extent of what's happened.

Strangely, the look on Sherlock's face when he bursts into the bedroom and casts a scrutinizing gaze over John is resigned and almost sheepish, as if he'd been expecting this, or something like it. John comes to an upsetting realisation.

"YOU DID THIS!"

Sherlock doesn't deny it; he merely cringes slightly and leans against the doorframe.

"Bloody fucking hell, Sherlock. What in god's name was in that mug?"

For once, Sherlock looks genuinely apologetic, and at a loss for words. He spreads his hands wide in a gesture of entreaty.

"No, fuck it, you know what? I don't even want to know. Just..." She scrubs her hands through her hair, comforted to find that it, at least, seems mostly the same.

"John." Sherlock's voice is gentle, almost pleading. "If it's... any consolation, I'm nearly certain it's temporary. You only had a mouthful, so it shouldn't last more than a day or two."

John finds herself strangely accepting of these circumstances, but whether it's due to Sherlock's quiet assurance or merely that she's still in shock, she's not sure. Sighing, she gets up and steps into the bathroom. Sherlock, intelligently, has the decency to stay hovering in the doorway, rather than crowding in.

The face that greets her isn't her own, but nor is it entirely a stranger's. The eyes are the same, and the broad nose and thin lips are familiar, if a bit softer and more delicate. John pauses, running a fine, dainty, hairless hand over the mirror. She sighs again.

"I don't look like _me,_ Sherlock. I feel like me. But I don't look like me."

Sherlock's brow furrows, as if he's unsure about what to say. "I think you look fine."

John huffs. " _Fine._ I may be a lot of things right now, but fine isn't one of them. I'm certainly not attractive to you anymore."

The expression on Sherlock's face is a clear mixture of shock and confusion. “John, you should know by now that it’s your mind and your heart that drew me in, not your genitalia. Would it make a difference to you if I were to suddenly grow breasts?”

For a moment, she’s distracted by the not unpleasant mental picture of a female Sherlock.

“No, of course not. Honestly, if you’d had them to begin with, things might have been a lot less confusing.”

Sherlock grins briefly, before his face settles into a more composed and neutral expression. “Something’s still bothering you though, John.”

She flops heavily into the chair, glaring at him. “Sherlock, I woke up from a nap and suddenly I’m a woman. I have no idea how it happened, beyond swallowing some ridiculous concoction of yours, or how long it’s going to last. Right now, though, I think I’m most unsettled by you calling me John. It feels... wrong. Not quite me. Sort of like my face.”

Nodding, Sherlock purses his lips in thought for a moment. “Jane then?”

She nods. It’s awkward, but it’ll suffice. “That’ll have to do for now. I think I need some air. Maybe go get a cup of coffee or something.”

The relief on Sherlock's face is palpable, and Jane realises he's been holding his tension in since this started, waiting on tenterhooks for her to come to terms with things.

"Let me just get my coat."

Jane's face must falter, because Sherlock stops in his tracks.

"Alone?"

She smiles and nods, reaching up to touch his face gently. Even the skin of her fingers feels thinner, finer, and the intimately familiar skin of Sherlock's cheek is a whole new experience.

"Alone. Thank you, Sherlock. I'm not angry, I promise. I'm probably crackers for not being angry, but I just need a bit of space."

He nods, looking a bit like a lost puppy, and steps out of the way as Jane fumbles around in her drawers for something reasonable to wear. The trousers may not fit quite right, and the shirt doesn't close properly, but she slips a cotton vest on under it and leaves the top few buttons open, and the end result is passable, if less than flattering.

She leans up and presses her lips to Sherlock's, brief and chaste, before ducking out the door and down the hall.

***

Jane's been wandering aimlessly , never venturing too far from Baker Street, just studying the world. She's incredibly aware of the gaze of male passers-by, and at first she's concerned that people might recognise her. After the fifth appraising nod, she comes to understand that this is just to be expected. Has she been guilty of doing this to women in the past? Not recently, not with eyes and mind full of Sherlock - larger than life and unbearably distracting - but maybe before? The thought unnerves her slightly.

She finds an empty bench and sits down, staring pensively at some birds in the sky. She loses track of time, but the sky's gone from clear and bright, to a pearlescent peach to a rich deep navy, so it's been a while. The ring of her mobile jostles her back into the real world. There's a text from Sherlock.

_You know all that lesbian pornography you have on your computer? -S_

Jane blinks at the text message, unsure of how to respond. The mobile chimes an incoming media alert, and she downloads the attached image.

The image on the screen frames the cleavage of a pair of pert and inviting-looking breasts, straining against a strangely familiar deep purple button-down shirt. There’s a small square of wallpaper over the subject’s left shoulder and... Oh god, it’s the sitting room. No wonder the shirt looks so familiar...

Leave it to Sherlock to uncomplicate this temporary problem in the most complicated way possible. An alien but not entirely unwelcome heat settles in Jane’s abdomen, and between her thighs. Dropping her head to hide the sudden flush blooming on her cheeks, she dashes out a quick reply to the text.

_Jesus, Sherlock. I’ll be home in five minutes. -J_


	15. Day 15 - In a Different Clothing Style

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is a bit of a spiritual successor to the gorgeous [An Hour and a Half to Midnight](http://archiveofourown.org/works/618140) by Lacuna, and [The Gift that Keeps on Giving](http://archiveofourown.org/works/631925) by wren. <3 It's not necessary to have read those, but they're hot as hell and you should read them anyway.

"I swear, John. Mycroft is organising these events specifically to make my life miserable." Sherlock's petulant voice booms up the stairs. "He knows I hate this sort of thing. Dressing up, having to be civil..." the rumble trails off, and John chuckles.

"Sherlock, you're never civil anyway, so I don't see what the problem is. And I'm also not sure why you're complaining about dressing up, you live in suits."

Humming tunelessly to himself, John adjusts the straps on his kilt and tugs up his thick, cable-knit hose. He's nearly completely put together, but the final touch is missing. He rummages around in his dresser and finds the rich red leather box he'd been hunting for. Pinned to the velvet lining is his most precious kilt pin - the RAMC logo carved in delicate silver. Reverently, he pins his hem in place and inspects himself in the mirror.

John's not a vain man, but he has to admit that he looks quite decent in full kit. A kilt in the rich Watson tartan, black jacket with gleaming silver buttons, his grandfather's sporran. He's wearing simple oxfords on his feet along with the beige socks. He'd debated the proper ghillies, but never knows when he might have to run after Sherlock, and the oxfords are more practical.

There's a faint flutter of nerves in his stomach as he studies his reflection. Sherlock's never seen him in a kilt, and John's not entirely sure how he's going to react. Banishing the concern, he squares his shoulders and is about to march proudly down the stairs when something catches his eye.

The four-poster bed up here doesn't get much use anymore - the room is dusty and abandoned. John only came up to get dressed because he's been storing his kilt up here; no point in having it take up space in the downstairs closets. But he smiles fondly, staring at the bed, remembering the last time it had been used. The ridiculous ties he'd used to restrain Sherlock are all still hanging from one of the posts, including the ostentatiously tasteful and subdued necktie from Mycroft. The silk is wrinkled from being trapped between Sherlock's teeth, and there are visible watermarks from saliva. Smirking, John grabs the tie and heads downstairs.

Sherlock's waiting impatiently at the bottom of the stairs, and when he hears John's heavy footfalls he opens his mouth to complain about something. However, as soon as his eyes take in John's appearance, the words seem to die in his mouth. His eyes go wide and he coughs to clear his throat, and John's former worries vanish instantly.

He smiles at Sherlock, and Sherlock nods in return.

"You look rather dashing, John. How come you've never worn your kilt before?"

Grinning playfully, John strikes an absurdly model-like pose at the bottom of the stairs. "What, this old thing? Just something I had lying around."

Sherlock rolls his eyes and chuckles quietly. His eyes are drawn to the flash of silver at the hem of John's kilt, and he studies the pin appraisingly. He seems to enjoy it when John takes pride in his history, his achievements. John feels strangely warm, and abruptly changes the subject.

"You're nearly ready, Sherlock, but you've forgotten to put on a tie."

The look on Sherlock's face is mutinous. "You can't be serious, John. You know how I feel about ties."

"Yes, but I also know how you feel about making your brother uncomfortable." Smirking, he pulls the tie out of the pocket in his sporran. Sherlock's expression shifts from irritable to thoughtful to downright mischievous. Clearly he knows exactly which tie is dangling from John's fingers.

Impishly, he reaches out and grabs it, and fusses for a moment. "I think I can make an exception and humour my dear brother by dressing up just this once." John watches with amusement as Sherlock attempts to wrestle the tie into submission.

"You deleted it, didn't you?"

Sherlock shrugs. "Ties are stupid. I had no intention of needing to do one up ever again."

Smiling fondly, John steps across the landing, closing the space between the two of them. With deft surety, he wraps and loops and knots, and within a few seconds the tie is in a respectable-looking double Windsor, clasped snugly around Sherlock's throat. John lingers a moment, fingers tracing the soft skin above Sherlock's collar, and he shivers under the touch.

John pulls away, knowing if they don't get moving immediately, they'll never get going. A soft, wistful noise slips out from between Sherlock's lips, and John's resolve nearly crumbles. But they both know that if they don't show up at this dinner party, Mycroft will make their lives an utter nuisance for weeks to come. Resigned, John nods in the direction of the front door.

"Ready?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John's kilt pin [can be seen here](http://moonblossom.tumblr.com/post/40624958625/why-yes-this-is-an-ramc-kilt-pin-way-to-hit-a)


	16. Day 16 - During Their Morning Rituals

A shockingly loud combination of a thud and a crash emanating from the general direction of the front of the flat wakes John out of his heavy slumber. At least the sun is up, so it must be something close to a decent hour. Irritably, he rubs his eyes and stretches, groaning when his spine makes a noise akin to a bowl of Rice Krispies.

Sherlock's side of the bed is rumpled, but cold. He must have crawled in and napped at some point during the night, but he's been gone for at least a few hours. John pulls on a pair of pyjama bottoms and a thin cotton vest and pads into the kitchen.

The sight that greets him - a quiet, empty, clean kitchen - chills him far more than a mess would. Giving up any hope of having a peaceful morning or going back to bed, John shuffles warily into the sitting room.

Ensconced in his chair, Sherlock's kneeling upright with his eyes thoughtfully closed, looking for all the world like an Emperor in a palanquin. Nothing looks out of place at first glance, which only heightens John's apprehensiveness.

Before he's had a chance to say anything, Sherlock opens one eye and studies him critically. John looks around and shrugs, hands loose at his sides.

"What the hell was that noise, Sherlock? And how long have you been awake?"

Closing his eyes slowly, Sherlock inclines his head in the general direction of the coffee table. Cringing, John steps forward and looks. There's a plastic cup on the table - the cheap kind from bad pubs or outdoor festivals - with a bloody fish inside it. John can't help but laugh at the absurdity of the situation, but the laugh is aborted when he notices the floor beyond the coffee table is soaking, and littered in shards of broken glass. The puddle reminds him that he neglected to stop in the loo when he first woke up, and his bladder gives an uncomfortable throb.

"Sherlock." John sucks in a long breath, trying to calm himself. "Why is there a goldfish in a cup on the coffee table?"

Sherlock squints. "It's a juvenile oscar, not a goldfish. It's in a cup because the fishbowl broke." The silent _obviously_ is so heavily implied John hears it anyway.

"Why do we have a fishbowl?"

"He's from a crime scene. There were half-eaten fingers in his tank. He's evidence now."

Rather than argue, John plods into the kitchen. He grabs the broom and a couple of tea-towels, and tidies up the mess in front of the sofa as best he can.

Once the mess is under control, John sighs and sits down heavily on the sofa. "Just once, Sherlock, I'd like a normal morning. Bit of a lie-in, putter about in the bathroom for a bit, sit down in the kitchen with a cup of coffee and the newspaper."

Sherlock eyes him appraisingly. "No you wouldn't. You'd get bored."

"Remind me again why I put up with you?"

"Because you love me." Sherlock's voice is amusingly matter-of-fact, not remotely emotional or fanciful. John grumbles.

"Remind me again why I love you?"

"Because I'm extraordinary." This time, John hears the faint amusement in Sherlock's voice, and finds himself unable to fight it. He gets up and crosses the room, resting on the wide arm of Sherlock's chair. He runs his hand through Sherlock's hair, and Sherlock leans into the contact, letting out a low, contented noise.

"That you are, Sherlock. That you are."


	17. Day 17 - Spooning

It's not that John _minds._ Not exactly. He understands that Sherlock's childhood was probably deprived of physical contact, aside from (in all likelihood) the Headmaster's cane. He understands that having gone without the comfort of a tight hug or a soothing hand for so long - and having convinced himself it was frivolous and unnecessary - Sherlock is simply making up for lost time.

The problem arises when Sherlock's profoundly asleep, and at his most vulnerable. It's at these points that he clings to John for dear life, like a drowning man to a life preserver. It would be less difficult if Sherlock weren't comprised almost entirely of long bones and sharp angles. John's tried to convince him to switch positions, to let him burrow against the lush curve of Sherlock's callipygian endowments, but Sherlock wants none of it. John's the shorter one, so he's doomed to be the little spoon for eternity.

Which is how he finds himself now, desperately thirsty and wide awake, with a hip bone digging into his kidney and a knee bruising his quadriceps. Sherlock's arm has him efficiently caged, wide hand splayed across John's sternum. Every time John tries to shift his weight, tries to test the bonds encasing him, Sherlock lets out a completely endearing sleepy murmur and then proceeds to tighten his death grip.

Succumbing, John pushes his thirst to the back of his mind and relaxes, curling up tighter and nestling in against the warmth of Sherlock's bare chest. Still sound asleep, Sherlock lets out a contented breath that ruffles John's hair and throws one leg over John's hip, pulling him in closer. With a sigh that's half exasperation and half fondness, John closes his eyes and slowly nods off once more.


	18. Day 18 - Doing Something Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is pretty much gratuitous wound porn, so if you’re uncomfortable with blood, needles, etc, just skip it.

“Jesus, Sherlock, when I said we’d both been busy and I wanted to see more of you, I didn’t mean the _inside of your arm_. Now sit.”

Sherlock scowls, tightening his grip on the towel covering the open wound, and perches on the lid of the toilet, where John is gesturing. “I wasn’t expecting him to have a knife.” He’s trying to sound defensive, but John can hear the tremor in his voice.

“You never do.” John rolls his eyes and stares at the ceiling for a moment to calm himself. He fetches the first aid kid from the cabinet under the sink, and preps himself methodically. He sets out a clean towel and lays the lidocaine, benzalkonium chloride, a packet of nylon suture thread, a curved needle, and clean gauze. The routine is almost meditative, calming his frayed nerves.

Soothed by the procedure, John turns to his patient. Sherlock’s looking a bit paler than usual, forehead slightly clammy, but aside from that he’s not doing too badly. The same cannot be said, however, for his arm. The blood’s soaked through the towel, and is welling between his fingers. John frowns.

“Ok, Sherlock, we’re gonna have to unwrap that.”

With a wince and atypically high-pitched whimper, Sherlock unfurls his fingers and the towel falls away from the gash in his bicep. John squats down and studies the wound, cringing. It’s difficult to remain detached when your patient is your lover, but Sherlock is an obstinate bastard who refuses to let anyone else treat him for “little things”. John daubs some disinfectant onto a clean gauze pad and with a near-reverential gentleness, cleans the dried blood from around the injury. Thankfully, the knife must have been recently sharpened – the edges of the flesh are sliced cleanly. John lets out a relieved breath; healing will be much easier this way.

The cut itself is short, but deep. There’s a hint of the yellowed, lumpy, subcutaneous fat, but no visible muscle fibre, at least. As John continues his examination, Sherlock hisses quietly. John looks up to see him biting his lip in an attempt to remain silent and detached. Gently, he strokes Sherlock’s cheek.

“You can curse if you want to.”

“I’m fine.”

John chuckles, stroking hair off Sherlock’s clammy forehead with one hand while the other remains at the wound site. “Sure you are.”

He tosses the bloody towel into the sink, transfixed for a moment by the blood glinting off the cool white porcelain. Shaking his head, he preps the syringe of lidocaine, flicking out any bubbles before estimating roughly where the nerve blocks should be. It’s so much easier with a chart nearby, and John reminds himself to pick one up next time he’s out.

“Deep breath, Sherlock. One, two…” before hitting three, not giving Sherlock time to tense up or pull away, John slips the tiny needle into the creamy skin of Sherlock’s arm. He repeats the process a bit further down the arm and then again once above the wound, until the syringe is properly empty.

As the numbing agent begins to take effect, a hint of the familiar Sherlock creeps out.

“John, your deceitful tactics were unnecessary, I’ve dealt with much larger needles before.”

“Can we not?”

Sherlock cocks his head. “Hm?”

“Not be so cavalier about that sort of thing? When I’m about to sew you up? Don’t make me waste the sutures on that bloody mouth of yours.” John laughs quietly, but his voice is rock-hard.

Tentatively, he strokes Sherlock’s upper arm with the curved surgical steel needle. “Anything?”

Sherlock doesn’t flinch at all. Nodding, John threads the needle and painstakingly begins stitching the two sides of the cut together. The methodical, repetitive motions of sliding the curved needle through the soft flesh and knotting it together helps John to focus, to block out the fact that it’s Sherlock he’s doing it to. Four stitches later, he’s finished.

He wipes down the area with another clean gauze, and then forgoing any sense of professional detachment, brushes his lips a few inches below the incision, safely out of range for stray bacteria. Just to be certain, he cleans the surface one last time before covering the sutures with a cotton pad and tightly wrapping Sherlock’s bicep with a roll of gauze.

“Now, no fucking around for at least a week, alright? If you split those open, I’m sending you to the A&E.”

Pouting, Sherlock nods. John knows he’s not going to listen, but at least he’s done his duty by saying it. He stands, wiping his hands on the thighs of his trousers, and runs his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. The colour of his skin is already improving, having shifted from a grayish pallor back to his usual fragile alabaster, and his posture is more relaxed. John locks eyes with him, and for a moment neither of them say a word. Eventually, Sherlock breaks away and studies the bandage.

“Just promise me one thing, Sherlock.” John’s voice is clipped, still fragile with worry.

Sherlock nods without saying anything.

“Next time, don’t run off alone. You were lucky this time, but I’m not sure I could handle a larger wound.”

“Nonsense, John.” Sherlock shrugs dismissively, hissing when the motion tugs on the stitches. “You’re an excellent doctor.”

With a sigh, John bends down and traces his lips across Sherlock’s forehead. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it, you bastard.” He stands again, taking a deep breath and bracing one arm against the bathroom wall.

Sherlock, in response, merely rests his forehead against the warmth of John’s stomach and wraps his good arm around John’s thighs, pulling him close. Everything shrinks down to the tiny square footage of the bathroom, the outside world forgotten, for the moment.


	19. Day 19 - In Formalwear

John’s relaxing in one of the plush wingback chairs of their suite, watching Sherlock dash around like a madman. His eyes are wide, and his expression is one of pure befuddlement, that rare one John never tires of seeing on his face. He’s got his trousers and shirt on, but his waistcoat, tails, and bow-tie are nowhere to be seen.”

“Why did he ask _me_ of all people, John?””

“Clearly he thought you were the best man for the job.” John snickers to himself, and Sherlock glowers.

“This isn’t the best time for juvenile wordplay!” Sherlock runs his fingers through the hair a stylist had worked hard to tame, freeing his curls. “Where did you put my waistcoat?”

Unused to seeing him so frazzled, John takes pity on him.

“Sherlock. Hold still. Take a deep breath. You’re not the one getting married here, the panic should be Greg’s department.”

Sherlock stares at John as though he’s just registered he’s actually in the room, as if before now he’d just been shouting for the sake of shouting. Grounded, he freezes in his tracks. John steps up close to him, holding the pewter silk waistcoat in one hand.

Taking charge, John rests one hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. In a calm but completely authoritative voice, he tells Sherlock to face the mirror and hold still.

With the skill and patience befitting a Victorian valet, John guides Sherlock’s clammy hands through the armholes and slides it up over his shoulders. He slides his arms around Sherlock’s narrow waist, deftly doing the buttons up. For a fraction of a second, they make eye contact in the mirror and John feels his breath catch in his throat. The rich grey colour makes Sherlock’s skin look creamy and warm, and makes his eyes look like pearls.

John feels his pulse quickening, feels the rush of blood causing his cock to swell. Realising he’s gripping the fabric of the waistcoat hard enough to wrinkle it, John releases his grip and tugs the garment into place before grabbing the long white bow tie.

He wraps it around Sherlock’s neck while Sherlock stands uncharacteristically still and silent. As his fingers are tucking the silk under Sherlock’s collar, Sherlock cants his hips back slightly, pressing his arse against the stirrings in John’s trousers. John’s eyes dart to the mirror again, where he can see that Sherlock’s pupils are as blown as his own. Keeping his gaze fixed on the mirror, he looks down, studying Sherlock’s reflection. The outline of his own erection is startling its vulgarity, the finely tailored trousers clinging obscenely to him.

Sucking in a long, shuddering breath, John drops the two ends of the bow tie and slides his hands down the length of Sherlock’s body. Fingers splayed, he traces the protrusion of Sherlock’s hard cock, just lightly enough to elicit one plaintive whine from the back of Sherlock’s throat. John grips his hip and grinds against him, his own confined prick slipping into the cleft of Sherlock’s arse with practiced familiarity. Dropping his head back onto John’s shoulder, Sherlock begins rocking his hips, alternately thrusting his clothed erection into John’s hand and grinding backwards against John’s own.

With a groan, John fumbles with Sherlock’s zipper, desperate to free him now, to see that flushed, throbbing cock in the mirror. His fingers feel thick and clumsy with lust, but he manages to grip the metal pull tab and is about to pull it down when they’re startled by a knock at the door.

“Are you two nearly ready?” Greg’s voice carries into the room, excited and nervous. “We need to get to the church in about twenty minutes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To clear up a point of confusion here - the boys are wearing standard white-tie formal with coloured waistcoats, not morning wear. So the white ties are absolutely correct.


	20. Day 20 - Dancing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As much as I love these two dancing together, and wish everyone could dance with whomever they wanted without judgement, I wanted to try something a little more sad and unfortunately realistic for this one.

Molly whirls up to the table in a cloud of satin and crinoline. Her wedding dress – a twee and frothy affair with rhinestones and flowery pink accents – would look juvenile and a bit sad on anyone else, but on her it’s perfectly suited. The smile on her face is a mile wide, and her cheeks are glowing with contentment.

Smiling, she taps John lightly on the shoulder. “Can I borrow your boyfriend for one dance? Bride’s prerogative?”

Sherlock’s too busy staring at all the other guests, muttering observations to himself, to notice. John smiles up at Molly.

“Be my guest. So long as you don’t mind me checking out his arse at some point.”

Molly gasps and giggles to hide her embarrassment, but she grins and winks playfully at John before turning to Sherlock.

Finally paying attention, he looks up at Molly and raises his eyebrows. “Can I help you, Molly?”

Coquettishly, she holds out one hand. Sherlock turns to John, clearly lost.

 _Dance with her_ John mouths, pantomiming a whisper, and Molly giggles endearingly again. John steals a glance over at Greg, who also looks inhumanly giddy, and his heart swells with happiness for the two of them. Sherlock catches his eye again and scowls, but John merely shrugs and nods at Molly’s hand.

With a glare that makes it clear John is going to regret this later, Sherlock elegantly rises from his chair and takes Molly’s hand, resting it on his arm in a gentlemanly manner. His carriage makes it evident he’s had lessons at this sort of thing, and John finds himself wishing it was him up there dancing with Sherlock.

He’s startled out of his reverie by a throaty, reverberating cough. He looks up and finds himself face to face with one of Greg’s elderly aunts. She’s got a broad face and stoic countenance that could only charitably be referred to as handsome, and is wearing a severe black dress with a high neck and enormous skirt. It’s precisely because of the relatives like this that John has refrained from asking Sherlock to dance, he doesn’t want to scandalise anyone and ruin Greg and Molly’s moment.

As if the universe is trying to spite him, the woman smiles at him in what John can only assume is meant to be a flirtatious manner.

“May I have this dance?” Her voice is strangely high and affected, unsuited to her stark manner. Out of ingrained politeness, John stands and takes her arm, guiding her to the floor.

The dance is a slow waltz, thankfully, ensuring a reasonable pace and a safe distance between them. The aunt is tittering away about something or other, but John can’t bring himself to listen. His eyes are fixed on Sherlock, guiding Molly elegantly across the floor, the picture of masculine grace.

As Sherlock spins Molly around, his eyes latch onto John’s, and their gazes lock for a moment. Unconsciously, John finds himself mirroring Sherlock’s posture, and he catches Sherlock’s subtle nod.

Sherlock guides Molly deftly across the floor, bringing the two couples closer, and then veers to the left. Mirroring him, John guides his charge to the right, bringing his movements into perfect synchronicity with Sherlock’s.

Every step, every dip, and every twirl that Sherlock leads, John follows. John’s completely oblivious to the woman in his arms, and he suspects Sherlock feels the same about Molly right now. He feels a pang of sympathy for the two of them, but then his heart and mind are drawn back to the elegant form of Sherlock in his tuxedo, and the sense memory of dressing him earlier in their suite.

The music swells to a crescendo and everything falls away, and for one perfect moment he and Sherlock are framed in each other’s arms, twirling across the dance floor, under everyone’s admiring gaze. As the music quiets, slows, and comes to a proper stop, their twin waltzes cease, and the fantasy is broken. John shakes his head, clearing the frivolous thoughts, and barely remembering to spare a dutiful nod for his partner.

As Sherlock slips by him, their fingertips touch for the briefest of moments, and John feels a familiar spark running from his hand to his heart.  Smiling, he vows to himself that he’s going to get his dance with Sherlock, a real one, as soon as the opportunity presents itself.


	21. Day 21 - Cooking

Exhausted, John leans against Sherlock's shoulder and surveys the burning wreckage of what used to be the crime scene they were studying.

"I don't understand it, Sherlock. Why would anyone attempt to cook up methamphetamines?"

He feels Sherlock shrug against him. "Financial desperation? Boredom? Besides, it's not like it's particularly difficult, unless you're an idiot."

John pulls back, staring at Sherlock's profile, gilded by the conflagration in front of them.

"Don't tell me you've done it?" John's not sure whether to be upset, surprised, or resigned.

"Cooked it? Yes. If you're asking if I've _done meth_ , then the answer is no. It was in university. Mycroft had cut off my allowance and I needed the cash."

For once, John's at a complete loss for words. Shaking his head, he turns and walks away, heading down the street to flag a taxicab.

***

A few days later, John shuffles into the kitchen, looking for Sherlock, but he's nowhere to be found. He runs his hands through his hair and heads down the stairs, sticking his head into Mrs. Hudson's flat.

"Mrs. H, d'you know where Sherlock is? His coat's still upstairs but he's not anywhere."

She smiles, wiping flour from her hands on a tea towel. "He's in the basement, love. Two-two-one-C. Not sure what he was planning on doing, but he had all sorts of bottles and containers. Something smelly, I guess, and he didn't want to disturb you."

"Thanks." John nods. Feeling the familiar stirrings of Sherlock-related worry in his stomach, John runs down to the basement flat and kicks open the door.

Sherlock's moved the bulk of his chemistry setup - most of the vials and beakers, the burners, and a distiller - into the basement, and he's standing there in a lab coat and the ridiculous plastic goggles that make him look like an overlarge insect.

John casts a glance across the bottles. Cough syrup, phosphorous, hydrogen iodide. John's knowledge of applied chemistry is not fantastic, but he's familiar enough with the cough syrup, thanks to the US news wire that Sherlock subscribes to.

He coughs to get Sherlock's attention. John's not sure how delicate the concoction is at the moment, but he certainly doesn't want Sherlock to drop anything. He puts the jar down and turns to John, eyes wide behind the comical safety glasses.

"Sherlock Holmes. Are you doing what I think you're doing?"

Sherlock's expression is carefully neutral. "That all depends, John. What do you think I'm doing?"

"Are you cooking up bloody methamphetamines in our basement?! Think of Mrs. Hudson!" His fingers clench and relax, clench and relax, as he sucks in deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself.

"I just wanted to make sure I was still capable of it. As I said, it's simple if you're not an idiot."

"No, Sherlock, I'm sorry, right now you are being an idiot. I love you, but you are absolutely an idiot."

Sighing, John glances over at the concoction. So far everything looks tidy and stable, but he's not going to relax knowing there's a chance something directly under their landlady might explode. He closes his eyes and takes a few more deep breaths.

"Sherlock. You are going to disassemble this. You are going to pack it into boxes. You are going to put those boxes a few streets away and ask one of your homeless network - one you trust implicitly - to watch over them. Then you are going to come home and call Lestrade, and tell him that someone in your network found the boxes and thought someone should dispose of them properly." He wobbles a bit, knees suddenly weak with the worry he'd been suppressing. "And if I ever, so help me, if I ever find you fiddling around with hard drugs again to prove a point, I am going to Greg's for a few days."

So slowly John thinks time might have stopped entirely, Sherlock pushes the goggles up onto the top of his head and peels off the thick rubber gloves he'd been wearing. Haltingly, he takes a few steps forward, closing the yawing chasm between them. Sherlock holds his hand out, hovering awkwardly in midair, and despite himself, John takes it between his own.

"John. It was just a silly experiment. I'd never..."

His eyes are wide and earnest, for once, and the wall John had started building crumbles. Sherlock really was just being fucking oblivious. He raises one shaking hand to Sherlock's face, feels Sherlock leaning into his palm like a cat.

"You really are an idiot, you know that? Just promise me you'll get rid of all of it."

"Of course. I didn't mean to worry you." Sherlock begins the delicate process of dismantling the whole setup, while John hovers off to one side.

"Implied apology accepted, you clot."


	22. Day 22 - Fighting Side-by-side

John wakes slowly. He’s disoriented, and his head is throbbing. He knows his eyes are open, but he’s still completely blind, not a blindfold – just an abysmally dark room. He can feel his lower lip, swollen, and cracking with dried blood. Just another perk of being Sherlock's partner, he supposes.

Rolling onto his side, he feels a sharp pull in his shoulder, his arms pinned awkwardly behind his back. A quick tug confirms his assumption, his hands are bound.  John tests the bonds, they’re slack and lazy. Clearly they didn’t expect him to be a threat; they’ve underestimated him. Good.

He pauses and holds his breath, trying to place himself. Somewhere nearby he hears the droning hum large industrial fans, but they’re hindering rather than helping. They’re indistinct and generic-sounding, and serve to muffle any other noises he might use to orient his location.

With a wince, he rolls his shoulders and wriggles his wrists, slackening the cheap nylon rope. It gives him just enough leeway to work the shoddy knots loose, and the rope falls away. The sudden rush of blood through his arms is nearly enough to make John moan, but he bites his lip. He feels the scabs burst open again and hisses, but manages to keep silent. If there’s anyone outside his makeshift prison John would rather they assume he’s still unconscious.

John palpates his scalp, searching for the source of the throbbing, and finds a swollen, bloody lump just behind his left ear. Likely a minor concussion, but the wound feels like a scrape, nothing requiring immediate attention, thankfully.

Now that he’s somewhat alert, and his eyes have had time to adjust, John notices a sliver of light along one wall, and hope swells in his chest. Hands free and mind clear, he takes the time to evaluate his assets. His gun is gone, unsurprisingly. His mobile is still in his pocket, though. He turns it on, scowling and turning away from the bright screen. There’s no signal available, but at least he’s got a makeshift light source now.

Using the screen as a flashlight, he takes in the room properly now. It’s not large, maybe ten by ten, with the doorway in one corner. It’s incredibly tall. The source of the whirring noise becomes evident as John scans the ceiling, where a huge fan is spinning. Some kind of industrial storage, maybe?

The phone screen shows it to be nearly two in the morning, but the wallop to his head has blurred his memory, and John has no real idea how long he’s been in here, can’t quite remember the last time he’s sure he was outside. He has a vague recollection of being on a stakeout with Sherlock around twilight, but that could have been several nights ago.

Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, John positions himself next to the door, where he'll be half-hidden when - hopefully - it opens. He braces his back against the wall for leverage and pounds on the door as he bellows.

"HELP! HELP! LET ME OUT!"

He's not actually expecting any help, but hopefully someone will come running, at the very least to try to get him to shut up. Whoever's holding him captive is pitifully predictable, and within minutes he hears the heavy footfalls of someone barrelling down the hall. John squints, preparing for a huge influx of light.

He's not disappointed. Moments later the door bursts violently open. He's nearly blinded, but his calm preparation's allowed him to deal with the situation. With his shoulders against the wall for leverage, he slams the door forward with his arms, smashing his captor in the face. Thankfully the idiot came alone, and he crumples to the floor without a sound.

Working as quickly and quietly as possible, John ties him up with the length of rope that had formed his own bonds, and he's careful to make sure the knots are much tighter and more efficient than the ones holding him had been.

John drags the guard into the small cell and shuts the door behind him, hoping it locks automatically. He looks both ways down the hall and, seeing nothing to differentiate them, goes with his gut and heads left. His decision proves to be the right one, as he comes to a utility staircase with a rather helpful EXIT sign leading the way.

At the next landing, he hears the steady thuds of someone pacing, likely another guard. Calling up every ounce of courage and training inside him, he creeps up the stairs entirely undetected and kicks the guard in the kidneys.

He turns with a shout before dropping to the ground, but John kicks him again, this time right in the face, and he goes down for the count. John's thrilled to see he's carrying a pistol in a holster on his hip. He checks it quickly. Six rounds. More than enough to get out of here. Holding the gun loose in his right hand, he opens the door out of the utility stairwell into the hallway proper.

As he's creeping down the dim corridor, he hears another set of running footsteps. He brings the gun up to eye level, but something makes him pause. The pace of the runner is familiar, and John sucks in a deep, shuddering breath and brings the gun back down.

Sherlock turns the corner and the look on his face makes John's heart swell. Carefully, he slides the gun into the back of his jeans as Sherlock runs up to him. He cups John's face gently, taking in the injuries. John's got no time to be treated like a fragile flower though; he grabs Sherlock by the lapels and pulls him in for a hungry kiss. He tastes blood on his lips again, and he's sure that Sherlock can taste it too, but neither of them seems to care right now.

When John pulls back, he's assaulted by a wave of nervous giggles. “What took you so long?”

“We had to figure out where you were, but I can see I’m not needed. Shall I go back home?” Sherlock's grin is lopsided and endearing, doing little to hide the genuine concern on his face.

“Shut up you.” John smiles back, kissing Sherlock again.

"John, I'm positive there are more men in here, we have to be careful."

Mouth firmly set, John pulls the gun back out of his jeans. He's about to step in front of Sherlock when Sherlock blocks him with his arm, gently but solidly.

"I've already been up there, John. I know the layout of the building. I'm also not currently suffering head trauma."

Pursing his lips, John nods his assent. As if to reinforce Sherlock's point, his head throbs.

They manage to get down two hallways before they encounter another group of thugs. Three of them this time. Sherlock steps out into the hall, drawing their attention with his admittedly over-dramatic silhouette. As soon as they're distracted, John fires off three shots in quick succession, felling them all without wasting a bullet.

The look Sherlock gives him is one of pure adulation, and John grins, wiping blood off the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. There's not much that can make Sherlock look at a person like that, and John's proud to be on the receiving end of it.

"Come on, John. The exit should be just around this corner."


	23. Day 23 - Having an Argument

Thirteen. The number of water-spots on the ceiling. Stupidly considered unlucky by superstitious morons. The atomic number of aluminium. Sherlock drums his index finger against his thigh thirteen times, then sighs, then thirteen times again.

"Ugh," he mutters. "I'm so bored I could jump off a bridge."

There's a clatter and an anguished moan from the kitchen as he says it. Intrigued, he gets up off the sofa to investigate.

John's squatting on the floor, back braced against the fridge. There's a plastic container and the remnants of what appear to be beans and toast splattered violently across the floor. Sherlock makes note of the spray pattern and files it away for future reference before his eyes rise to meet John's face. His eyes are wide, and his skin is pale and clammy. His hands are tightly clenched, fists digging into the floor on either side of him. Alarm grips Sherlock.

"John! What's wrong?!"

Trembling, John gets up off the floor and, despite his stature, manages to loom over Sherlock. His posture's shifted rapidly from agonized to furious - too rapidly for even Sherlock to follow along.

"Fuck you, Sherlock. How could you?"

Sherlock studies the mess on the floor. He's certain that wasn't there when he left the kitchen, so John clearly can't be angry about that. He racks his brain for any recent indiscretions, but nothing comes to mind. Cowering under John's fierce gaze, Sherlock admits defeat.

"I don't know why you're angry. Stop being so obtuse." The lack of understanding has made him snappish, but John should have been clearer.

Apparently, this was the wrong thing to say, as fire blazes in John's eyes.

"Sherlock bloody Holmes, you are an utter idiot. Don't tell me you don't understand why I'm upset after hearing you threaten to throw yourself off something out of BOREDOM."

_Oh. That._ His thoughts must be clear on his face, because John jabs a finger into his sternum.

"Yes. THAT. How could you? You complete and utter arsehole."

Sherlock huffs and shrugs, a gesture both defensive and dismissive. "I didn't mean it that way. You're over-reacting."

At this, John slams his hand flat against the table, and it's hard enough to rattle the dishes in the cabinet across the kitchen.

"Don't you bloody tell me I'm fucking over-reacting you enormous sodding arse. I'm going to lie down. I can't look at you right now."

Still trembling violently, John storms out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Sherlock feels a stab in his chest as he notices John's limping slightly with every other step.

He sinks into one of the kitchen chairs and lets his head fall into his hands. His heart is pounding and his stomach roiling. There's a trickle of sweat running down his spine, and his hands feel frigid against his face. Stupid emotions. Stupid traitorous body. He's certainly not bored anymore, but at the moment he'd give anything to be bored instead of feeling like this.


	24. Day 24 - Making Up Afterwards

Determined to fix this, Sherlock gets up and makes tea. A little too strong, a little too sweet - the way John likes it when he's upset. He'll be pleased Sherlock noticed. He'll have to be. Clutching the mug in both hands to still the tremors still running through them, he makes his way slowly and steadily up the stairs to the extra room.

The fact that John had taken refuge in his old bedroom, not the main-floor one they share now, has not escaped Sherlock. Normally when he needs comfort, he runs to Sherlock, but this time he's run away. But he's still in the flat, which is promising.

Sherlock debates knocking, but suspects he’ll be rebuffed. He grips the mug with one hand and tentatively twists the doorknob with the other, relieved to find it unlocked. Not that a lock would have deterred him for very long, but it's a sign that John hasn't entirely shut him out. Either that or he knows Sherlock would just have picked it.

When he steps into the room, John is sitting on the bed with his back to the door.

"John." Sherlock's voice sounds tremulous and weak. "I'm... sorry. I was thoughtless."

Those must be the right words, because John pulls his legs up and turns around on the bed to face him. His eyes are red-rimmed and watery, but otherwise he appears in control of his faculties. Unlike Sherlock, whose heart is still in his throat, whose knees feel like week-old spaghetti. He leans against the doorframe for support.

John stares at him, still not saying anything, but the anger on his face is gone.

"It was never my intention to upset you, but I understand why I shouldn't have said what I said." The apology sounds awkward, textbook, but Sherlock means every word of it. More importantly, it seems to mollify John - the creases around his eyes soften, and he holds one hand out.

Sherlock steps forward, twining his fingers through John's.

"I thought I'd lost you, Sherlock. I thought I'd lost you forever." He's doing his best to remain stoic, but his voice hitches on Sherlock's name, and Sherlock feels a spike of fragile, shimmering ice in his chest.

"I don't ever want to think about it again. I don't want to be reminded of it, entirely out of the blue, in my own house." John sucks in a long, shuddering breath. Hesitantly, Sherlock moves to sit on the bed next to him. His relief is palpable when John seems to sense his intention and shifts over slightly, hand absently stroking the comforter next to him. Sherlock sits, still clutching John's hand.

"I don't want to make promises I can't keep, John, but I assure you I will make a concentrated effort to be more careful about what I say in the future." Sherlock means it. He can't bear the idea of seeing John in that much pain again anytime soon, especially not by any fault of his own.

John looks up at him, blue eyes wide and watery again, but this time the crinkles in the corner are due to a wavering smile.

"Thank you for being honest, Sherlock. I wouldn't have you any other way." He brings his free hand up as he's talking and runs his fingers into Sherlock's hair, and Sherlock catches himself whimpering in an entirely unbecoming manner.

"So... we're okay then?" He cringes at the needy undercurrent in his voice, but reassurance is more important than acting strong and detached right now.

John's answering smile fills Sherlock's chest with warmth, entirely banishing the glacial chill.

"We're always okay in the end."


	25. Day 25 - Staring Into Each Other's Eyes

Sherlock flings himself into John’s chair with a huff, and then winces at the movement, rubbing his forehead. John rolls his eyes in amusement and leans forward to wrap the vivid orange blanket tighter around Sherlock’s shoulders.

“The great Sherlock Holmes, felled by a steel I-beam.”

Sherlock scowls out from his nest of shock blanket. “It’s not my fault they were building that site for hobbits.”

“I didn’t think you knew what a hobbit was.” John smirks at the incongruous reference. Despite the head trauma, clearly Sherlock’s personality and memory are intact.

“It was one of the few fiction books Nanny permitted us to read when I was little. It’s not bad.”

John nods, sarcastically sage. “Mm. Tolkein’s often referred to as ‘Not bad’. Clearly you are the pinnacle of literary criticism. Anyway, stop fidgeting and let me check you out.”

Sherlock frowns and burrows deeper into the blanket. “The paramedic let me go, John. I’m _fiiiiine_.” He’s taking on the whiny, sleepy tone of a small child, or someone masking the fact that they’re in discomfort. John rubs his eyes.

“He let you go on the condition that the doctor you are lucky enough to live with re-evaluates you every two hours. You’ve got a concussion, Sherlock. At least let me check your pupils.”

Apparently realizing arguing with John is a lost cause, Sherlock drops the blanket and holds still. John sinks to his knees and pulls a pen-sized torch from his pocket. He’s intending to make a quick, cursory examination, simply ensuring Sherlock’s pupils are still reacting normally, but when he shines the beam into Sherlock’s right eye, he feels the breath knocked out of his chest.

Everyone knows Sherlock’s got exceptional eyes. They can go from a clear, smoky, nearly colourless grey to a rich, deep green, to the palest, brightest blue, all depending on his mood, his clothing, and his surroundings. Right now though, they’re a deep, grassy green around the outside, with nearly gold flecks around his rapidly-contracting pupils.

Somewhere in the back of John’s doctor brain, he files away the fact that they’re responding properly, but right now all he can focus on is the charming, tiny fleck of brown, the strange little birthmark directly above Sherlock’s pupil. When he’s fully dilated, it tends not to be visible, but right now, with his pupil shrunk down to a pinpoint, it’s clearly in evidence.

John realises he’s biting his lip and relaxes, running his tongue over the indentations. As he does so, Sherlock gasps quietly and John sees his pupils widen ever so slightly. He coughs and drops the torch, leaning forward and pressing a gentle kiss to Sherlock’s lips.

Sighing into John’s mouth, Sherlock shifts his head slightly, seeking a better angle. As soon as he does so, he winces again and pulls away, bringing one hand up to the mottled plum bruise on his forehead. The vexed expression that crosses his face sparks a laugh from deep in John’s chest.

“Not the best time for that sort of thing, I guess?”

In response, Sherlock merely curls up; pulling his legs up to his chest and wrapping himself entirely in his lurid orange mantle.

John stands and stretches before gently stroking the top of Sherlock’s head through the blanket.

“Just take it easy for a day or two, and I promise we’ll pick up right where we left off.”


	26. Day 26 - Getting Married

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took some liberties with John's dialogue at one point here, but the joke wouldn't have worked otherwise. You'll know what I mean when you see it.

Wiping clammy palms on his fine wool trousers, John takes a deep breath to try to calm his nerves. Why had he agreed to this ridiculous pomp, when they could have simply signed some papers with a witness and been done with it all? It was thoroughly shocking to him that Sherlock was strangely keen on a "proper" wedding, with a procession and guests and ridiculous outfits and the whole lot. John had barely expected him to agree to the legal practicalities of getting married, but this, this came out of left field.

But he'd looked so keen and eager, discussing the details with Mrs. Hudson, taking on the project with the gusto usually reserved for a new case, so of course John indulged him. Which is how he's ended up here, in a suit that had cost three times more than John's newest laptop, in a small chapel near the Holmes family property, waiting for his cue to head down the short aisle. The concept that two men in a same-sex marriage had to march down separately seemed dubious to him, but Sherlock wanted it this way, so this is what John is doing.

The piped-in music from the sound system fades to nothingness, and John hears the familiar, comforting tones of Sherlock's violin. This is an unexpected surprise, and all the anxiety in John's stomach dissipates. Shoulders firmly set, he steps into the main hall of the chapel.

It's at that moment that he recognises the music – Wagner’s Wedding March. More commonly known as _Here Comes the Bride._ John's not sure whether to laugh or yell, but as he's walking he catches Sherlock looking up from the violin with a smirk, and chokes out a quiet laugh. Fondly amused and vaguely irritated titters run through the few friends and family members gathered in the pews. Everyone seems relieved that Sherlock's finally acting somewhat like himself, and that John seems to be taking it all in stride.

The procession up the aisle seems to be over in seconds, and as John steps up onto the raised plinth, Sherlock tucks the violin away by his feet. John glares up at him through the fringe of his lashes and hisses playfully under his breath as the officiant drones on, oblivious.

"Bride, eh? Wait 'til we get home and I'll show you who wears the pants in this relationship."

Sherlock's returning smile is slow and lascivious. "I can assure you, John, if anyone's wearing pants up here, it's not me."

Groaning softly, John swallows and grits his teeth. It would not do to start thinking about what Sherlock may or may not have under those finely tailored trousers, especially not in front of all these people, and not in a house of worship, however lapsed own John's religion may be.

Placatingly, Sherlock reaches out and grabs John's hand as they both turn to face the officiant properly. As he continues to drone on, John can't help but steal little glances at Sherlock, his bright eyes and sharp features kissed by the diffuse warm light seeping in through the stained-glass windows.

Finally, the ceremony gets to the part John cares about. The officiant addresses the gathered audience.

"Sherlock and John have written their own vows, let them share with us."

There's another murmured ripple through the pews, clearly people debating the logic of letting Sherlock speak his mind at a moment like this, but John has faith in him.

"John, please recite your vows to Sherlock."

Hands trembling, he pulls a small index card from his jacket pocket. His palms are still clammy, and the ink is smudged, but he knows what he's written.

"Sherlock, when we first met, I thought you were crazy. When I agreed to move in with you, I thought _I_ was crazy." The quiet chuckles of the audience register dimly in the back of his mind as he keeps going. "And when I finally admitted to myself that I was falling in love with you, I knew I was crazy. But I've come to realise that it's not necessarily a matter of not being crazy that's important. It's finding someone who accepts that, who works around it. You found the little nooks and crannies inside me, and you wormed your way in." John pauses and groans as he says that out loud and catches the subtext that somehow managed to slip by him previously. The impish glint in Sherlock’s eyes makes it thoroughly apparent that he's picked up on it too. John coughs to clear his throat and keep going. "My point is, Sherlock, that somehow you complete me."

The smirk is gone from Sherlock's face now, replaced by one of those rare and genuine smiles, the faintly lopsided ones John loves so much.

"Thank you, John. Sherlock?" Mycroft's long-suffering sigh from the second row is loudly apparent. The officiant turns to look hopefully at Sherlock, apparently oblivious of the potential horrors that may come.

"John. Until I met you, I prided myself on my ability to separate my physical and emotional needs from my intellectual ones. Until I met you, I was convinced I had everything that mattered. And then somehow this unassuming little-" At the use of the word little, John scowls, but playfully. "man swept into my life and turned everything I knew upside-down. You showed me what I'd been missing, and I don't think I could bear to live without it ever again."

The way he says the words, so prosaic and matter-of-fact, affect John in a deeply emotional way that some flowery dramatic statement never would have. There's a lump in his throat, but he manages to keep his composure and smiles up at Sherlock.

"Thank you, Sherlock." The officiant nods. "Now, John Hamish Watson, do you vow to love and to-"

"Oh, do get on with it." Sherlock's booming voice interrupts the old man, who blinks, his composure shaken and his memorised and oft-recited speech interrupted. There's a genuine chuckle from the audience now, seemingly relieved that the Sherlock they know is back. With a shrug, the officiant nods at John.

"Do you?"

"I do."

He turns to Sherlock. "Do you?"

"Obviously."

John grins and elbows him. "I think you have to say _I do_ or it's not legally binding."

"Ridiculous." Sherlock huffs. "Fine, alright. I do."

The officiant seems a little lost at this deviation from protocol but he shrugs and nods. "Congratulations, I pronounce you married. You may now kiss."

Eagerly, Sherlock swoops in and pulls John to him for a thoroughly overwhelming and church-inappropriate kiss. He's conquering John's mouth with his tongue, and, weak in the knees, John grips Sherlock's lapels for support.

It's Molly's whoop that finally breaks the kiss. Wistfully, John pulls away from Sherlock, smugly appreciating the flush of his cheeks, the slight swell of his lips. He tilts his head upward, lips stroking the shell of Sherlock's ear as he whispers. "Now, what was that about not wearing any pants?"


	27. Day 27 - On Someone's Birthday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So go figure, today is the birthday of my mother and her twin sister. My aunt, the one currently in the hospital recovering from brain surgery. We brought her cupcakes in the ICU, and that ended up inspiring today's ficlet.

It's not as if John was really expecting Sherlock to remember his birthday. At least, that's what he keeps telling himself. Still, being stuck here in a dreary, sterile hospital room with a broken leg (which was entirely Sherlock's fault, who the hell leaves ball-bearings on the floor anyway) by himself sucks, and John's not too old or too proud to admit it.

He'd been looking forward to maybe going out to a nice dinner with Sherlock, relaxing in front of the telly, buying himself a new book or DVD as a little present. Instead, he's been abandoned here because Sherlock loudly pronounced that the whole situation was boring, and after a quick, perfunctory kiss on the forehead, he stormed out to do god knows what.

John sighs, trying to convince himself he's of an age where it shouldn't matter any more that seemingly everyone's forgotten his birthday. He's tired and irritable. His leg itches deep within the cast, and he can't get comfortable no matter how much he squirms. He's done the crossword and read the newspaper. Twice. He's debating ringing the nurse to ask for a painkiller when there's a familiar silhouette through the partitions surrounding his bed nook.

"Sherlock?" John reaches aside and pulls the curtain.

Sherlock's standing there, looking for all the world like a nervous, out-of-place schoolboy. He's got his hands behind his back, as if he's hiding something, and John's not sure he wants to know what it is.

"Happy Birthday!" Sherlock beams, looking unreasonably proud of himself. He brings his hands around to the front, where they're cupping what looks like it was once a cupcake. In... is that a petri dish? John stifles a groan and beams up at Sherlock.

"Thanks... I..."

Sherlock's face falters. "Thought I'd forgotten? John, you should know by now that I don't forget anything when it comes to you. I figured you wouldn't be up for an entire party, but Mrs. Hudson helped me bake a cupcake."

John eyes the sad little cake and grins. "Is that what that is?" It looks as though it hasn't risen quite properly, and one side's covered in copious, dripping icing while the other's nearly bare. And yes, John can now confirm, it is sitting in a petri dish. John can only hope it was a clean, sterile one.

"It's rubbish, isn't it? I'll throw it--"

"NO!" John catches his hand as Sherlock starts turning towards the bin. "Sherlock, it's perfect. You made it for me. That's what's important. And honestly, it's nice to have a reminder now and again that there are things you aren't good at." He squeezes Sherlock's fingers comfortingly and reaches for the cupcake.

"Wait, John." Sherlock holds one hand up, imploring John to hold still. To John's chagrin, he pulls out a candle and a lighter.

"Sherlock!" He hisses, keeping quiet to avoid attracting the attention of the nurses. "You can't light that in here!"

But it's too late, Sherlock's already got the candle lit and wedged firmly into the top of the lopsided confection.

"Make a wish, John. Isn't that what one does?"

Grinning despite himself, John closes his eyes and quickly blows out the candle before it can set off any smoke detectors or get too close to an oxygen canister. He doesn't believe in wishes, not anymore, but he thinks to himself that it'd be nice to be out of this hospital bed and home with Sherlock soon as he blows the tiny, flickering flame out in a wisp of smoke.

He cuts the cupcake carefully in half and holds a piece up to Sherlock's mouth.

"It's yours, John." Sherlock frowns. "Don't you want it?"

"Sherlock, I'm willing to bet you haven't eaten a thing since they admitted me. You eat your half, and I'll eat mine. Besides, nobody can make one cupcake, I'm sure there are more at home."

Sherlock eyes it askance. "That's assuming Mrs. Hudson hasn't thrown the rest out."

John picks up his own piece and bravely takes a big bite. He's pleasantly surprised, that despite its dilapidated outward appearance, it's got a perfectly decent texture and a rich chocolate flavour.

"Mmm, Sherlock, seriously. Try it."

"You're just saying that." Sherlock demurs, but looks mollified. He takes a bite, and the look of shock on his face is more than enough of a gift for John. "You're right, it does!"

They demolish what's left of the cupcake in quiet companionship. Taking Sherlock's hand in his own again, John looks up.

"Thank you for this, Sherlock. Don't think I've forgiven you yet for leaving that mess on the floor in the first place, but this was a very nice thing you did."

"I know."

John barks out a laugh and swats at Sherlock with the flimsy plastic hospital pillow. "You dick."

"Mm." Sherlock settles carefully on the side of the cot away from John's bad leg. "Shove over, I'm tired."

Unsurprisingly, John does, shifting slightly and making room for Sherlock's lanky form as he curls up next to him on the narrow bed.


	28. Day 28 - Doing Something Ridiculous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently today is the six-month anniversary of [Red Pants Monday](http://fandomdaysoftheweek.tumblr.com/post/41683282192/6-month-versary) on tumblr. In honour of that, have some red pants ridiculousness.

The tiny red ball of cotton is shining like a beacon now, glowing, demanding all John's attention. When he'd promised Sherlock he'd do something in return for making Sherlock pose in that silly hat again, he'd never expected _this_.

Sitting heavily on the bed, he picks up the pair of red pants and unfolds it, examining them closely. They're incredibly red. Stop-sign red. Fire-engine. The colour of love. Of lust. Awkwardly, he grips the edges of the pants between thumb and forefinger of each hand and holds them up in front of his face. Somehow, the star white trim makes the red seem all the more obscene. John sighs. He's unsure whether Sherlock is kidding around or legitimately wants to take photos of John wearing these, but there's only one way to find out, he supposes.

With a shrug, he strips down and folds his clothes into a tidy pile, and steps into the red pants. They fit perfectly, and they're surprisingly comfortable. They're also not quite as skimpy as John had initially expected. Maybe this won't be so bad after all.

He lays down on the bed, attempting a few theoretically sexy poses before giving it up as a lost cause and just settling down comfortably, feet crossed at the ankles and head and shoulders propped against a pillow.

"Sherlock? I'm..." John pauses, looking for an appropriate word. "I'm ready, I guess."

Sherlock strolls into the room, carrying one of those big fancy cameras with an on-board flash unit.

"What? No. Sherlock, I said you could use the cameraphone. Where did you even get that thing?"

Sherlock shrugs, undaunted. "Borrowed it from Forensics."

John blanches. "No, Sherlock. Absolutely not."

"Why not? I'm using my own memory card, I assure you, nobody else will see them."

Suddenly this all seems like a terrible, absurd idea. John sits up and clutches the pillow to his chest, feeling hideously exposed. His tan has faded, his body - while still retaining a decent underlying musculature - has gotten a bit soft around the edges, and his scarred shoulder feels like it's got a neon arrow pointing to it. He hasn't felt this self-conscious in years.

"Sherlock, I've changed my mind. I'm too old for this nonsense. If anyone should be posing half-naked for photos, it's you."

Sherlock scoffs, flapping one hand vaguely in John's direction.

He gets the camera mounted on a tripod - a bloody tripod! - and sits at the foot of the bed, staring at John's toes in a way that makes John feel even more vulnerable than he did before.

"John, please. I want you to be able to see yourself the way I see you." His hand comes up and gently pulls John's fingers away from the pillow, and John slackens and gives up. The pillow falls away and Sherlock looks up at him, smiling.

"They fit well. I knew they would. And the colour suits you, just as I expected. You look quite attractive."

John scowls, attempting to hide the pleased flush across his cheeks. "Yeah, yeah, good on you, you deduced a pair of pants for me." The sarcasm in his voice is strained and forced, and he knows Sherlock can hear right through it.

Sherlock rises from the bed and slides a small wooden chair over to the tripod. He settles behind the camera and nods at John.

"Relax, just lie down. Don't over-think it."

For the first few moments, John is stiff and hesitant. The unrelenting click-whirr-click of the shutter doesn't help, underscoring the insanity of the situation with every shot. Eventually he manages to tune everything out and stretches out on the bed, pretending he's just woken up from a nap. He rolls onto his back, casually throwing one arm up above his head in a way that he hopes firms the line of his torso. Another rolling stretch raises his hips slightly off the bed, and a low, throaty groan from Sherlock snaps John back into the moment.

He looks up, over the camera, and Sherlock's staring at him with a furious intensity. John feels flayed open, completely exposed, as if Sherlock's taking pictures of the innermost workings of his brain and his heart.

John feels the rapid flush of blood across his chest, capillaries expanding in a mixture of heady embarrassment and arousal. He's never been much of an exhibitionist, but being observed and being observed _by Sherlock_ are two very different things. He rolls towards the camera, canting his hips slightly to draw attention to his burgeoning erection, unsure of how Sherlock's going to react.

A sharp hiss, a deep intake of breath, make it thoroughly apparent that Sherlock's more than okay with the direction this is taking, and was likely his intention from the start. Confidence bolstered, John trails one hand down the length of his chest, fingers stroking over his abdomen and slipping into the white elastic waistband of the pants. He can feel his cock, fully hard now, straining against the cotton.

He turns his head away from the camera, playing coy, and traces the slippery head of his cock with one finger. He realises absently that he can't hear the click of the shutter anymore and raises his head, glancing over at Sherlock. His eyes are wide, fixed on John's prone form, and one hand's up at his mouth. He's biting his knuckles. His other one is hidden in shadow between his legs. He's got the heel of his hand pressed firmly against his crotch, and John feels a pang of sympathy and desperate, aching need.

"Christ, Sherlock. Get up here."

Without the slightest hint of an argument, Sherlock gets up and scrambles onto the bed, fumbling his way out of his trousers as he does. John grins fondly up at him, running the fingers of one hand through Sherlock's tangled curls as Sherlock crawls over him.

"I take it back, what I said that first night."

Sherlock pulls away slightly, clearly perplexed.

"That wasn't the most ridiculous thing I'd ever done. This is."

For emphasis, he bucks his hips, grinding his cock, and his ridiculous red pants, firmly against Sherlock's throbbing prick.

Sherlock groans, and manages to gasp out, breathless and ragged. "They are pretty absurd. I think you should get out of them. Immediately."

 


	29. Day 29 - Doing Something Sweet

It's the bees that push him over the edge. Something about using bees as a murder weapon has apparently raised Sherlock's hackles in a way John can't pretend to understand.

"They're such fascinating, gentle creatures, John. They can't help it, they swarm to their queen. It's a biological imperative. Put the queen on someone who happens to be allergic, of course they're going to follow." Sherlock frowns, and John rubs his back soothingly. "And now the entire hive is going to be frozen and used as evidence if we can't track down the beekeeper who did this."

John studies Sherlock's face, forehead creased with genuine concern. He seems far more perturbed by the fate of this group of bees than he generally does about people, but John's come to accept Sherlock's idiosyncrasies. He runs a hand soothingly through Sherlock's hair as an idea comes to him.

"Hold on, Sherlock. I think I might know where to look."

Sherlock peers up at him, perplexed yet hopeful. John rummages around on the coffee table until he finds last Tuesday's newspaper.

"Here it is!" He unfolds the paper and points to a large, half-page ad. _Annual Bee-Keeping and Honey Farmer's Expo, January 26th through February 9th._

The look on Sherlock's face is even more admiring and impressed than John usually merits, and he feels the tips of his ears flush.

"John! This is an excellent place to start looking. A colony of that size has to have been established for a while, if the murderer purchased it from a reputable farmer, they'll likely be here. I'll phone Lestrade."

***

Two hours later, John and Sherlock meet up with the officers the Met has sent over in front of the ExCel*. Sherlock taps his foot impatiently as DI Lestrade briefs them all on the situation, and John squeezes his hand comfortingly. Eventually, they're all dismissed and Sherlock darts off, surveying the booths in a grid pattern.

It takes him less than twenty minutes to track down Thaddeus Westenberger, dockworker and embittered ex-husband, who is masquerading as a down-on-his-luck beekeeper attempting to unload several empty hives on anyone who makes the mistake of looking at him.

"It's obvious, John." Sherlock shrugs, as the Yarders cuff Westenberger and escort him off the premises. "He had the rough, stained hands of someone accustomed to heavy manual labour, not something you frequently see with beekeepers. He's also covered in stings; while the occasional accident or two is inevitable, an experienced handler would never have that many at once. His clothes are also all wrong - first of all, none of the other farmers here are wearing their gear, we're in a convention centre. That screams _trying to fit in._ Also, everything he's wearing is brand new; the gloves tucked into his pocket still had tags on them. It's clear he was here under false pretenses, approaching him about it spooked him enough that he willingly confessed."

Even after all this time, hearing Sherlock rattle off a chain of deductive reasoning never fails to impress John. "Brilliant," he murmurs, under his breath. Sherlock preens under the praise, somehow still finding it novel after all these years.

"You know, John. I've often considered keeping bees after we retire. Maybe moving out to the coast. Mind if we look around?"

John casts a glance across the convention floor. "Not at all."

Sherlock grins endearingly and runs off, a kid in a candy store.

John catches up to him at a booth sampling local honey varieties. His eyes are closed, a small wooden spoon trapped obscenely between his lips, and his expression is one of pure bliss. When he opens his eyes, he notices John and gestures for him to come over. Obligingly, John trots up to Sherlock, who holds out a spoonful of the thick, amber liquid.

Uninhibited, John parts his lips and lets Sherlock slide the spoon into his mouth. As the first trickle hits his tongue, John understands the look on Sherlock's face. The honey is beautifully sweet without being cloying, a complex blend of floral and grassy flavours, a million miles away from the sticky, solidified stuff in the bee-shaped jar John used to get at the grocery store.

A quiet moan escapes his lips, and Sherlock smirks at him.

"Lovely, isn't it?"

"God, Sherlock, it's delicious."

He picks up a small glass jar with a hand-inked label and shows it to John. Apparently the honey contains three types of clover, almond blossom, and Scottish heather.

"I was thinking of buying a jar to take home." John swallows, savouring the last of the honey on his tongue, imagining it mingling with the sharp tang of Sherlock's sweat, and smirks up at him.

"Take two. I have an idea."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *ExCeL London - the international exhibition and convention centre.


	30. Day 30 - Doing Something Hot

The heavy, angry thud of John's footsteps up the stairs knocks Sherlock out of his reverie. The sound alone makes it obvious that something unpleasant has happened; it becomes immediately apparent what that is when John storms into the sitting room.

His jeans and jumper are soaked through, splattered with the foul effluvia of road slush, rock salt, and mouldering trash that is so endemic to urban centres in the winter. The spray pattern is consistent with the splash-back of a car speeding through a puddle.

"Christ, Sherlock. People out there have no respect for pedestrians. Bloody selfish arseholes, the lot of them." John's ranting, mostly for his own benefit, as he methodically strips out of his befouled clothing right there in the middle of the sitting room.

Sherlock knows John's doing it simply out of urgency and efficiency, an immediate need to get warm and a practical desire to avoid dragging the filth across the flat. Even so, the sudden and unexpected show of flesh is still novel enough to Sherlock, and as though his body is making up for lost years, he feels his pulse quickening, his breath turning coarse and ragged in his throat as he watches John's clinical striptease.

He stands, drawing his bathrobe tightly around himself, vaguely embarrassed at the idea of John noticing how aroused he already is. As John bundles up the dirty garments, Sherlock steps forward.

"Leave them for now, John. We'll take care of them later. You should get into a shower, clean yourself off and warm up." Sherlock takes another step, looming now over John. He tips John's face up, one gentle finger under his chin, and looks pointedly into his eyes.

Sherlock knows John is taking in the flush across his cheeks, the dilation of his pupils, the slack parting of his lips. As he processes it, John's scowl disappears, his countenance shifting rapidly from irritated to eager. He nods up at Sherlock, swallowing heavily, and Sherlock dips his head down, flicking his tongue over John's bobbing adam's apple.

They scramble down the hallway, Sherlock dropping his dressing gown and stepping out of his pyjama bottoms as he goes. When they get into the bathroom, John drops his pants on the floor and Sherlock pulls his crew-neck up over his head, feeling the heat of John's admiring gaze as the planes of his torso shift and stretch.

John gets the water running, and after a moment of clumsy positioning, they both slip into the stream of the shower. The bathroom is small and awkward, and the old Victorian tub was never intended for two men, but that simply means they have to lean in closer.

No longer remotely abashed by his arousal, Sherlock grips John from behind and slides his erection against the slippery warmth of John's skin. They groan in unison, Sherlock's turning into a plaintive whine as John pulls away briefly.

He turns around quickly though, and grips Sherlock by the hips, pulling them close together again. Sherlock closes his eyes, feeling the hot water cascade down over his shoulders, splashing onto John's chest. He tips his head down, angling to trap John's lips in a slick, slippery kiss.

As he parts John's lips with his tongue, Sherlock drags his fingers down the length of John's back, sliding his palms down to cup John's arse, bringing their bodies even closer together.

As their cocks slot neatly together, lubricated by the warm water, John lets out a string of soft, muffled curses.

"Christ, Sherlock. You're so fucking gorgeous. Sex was the farthest thing from my mind when I got home today, and then one desperate look from you and I'm nearly coming in my pants." Sherlock gasps at the words, feeling his cock twitch against John's. He grips John's arse more firmly, holding him still as he rocks his own hips forward. He'd intended to start slowly, draw out the tease, but suddenly John's lips are forming a tight seal around Sherlock's nipple and his hips are bucking, grinding, nearly of their own accord.

Eager and impatient now, Sherlock reaches out and braces one arm against the wall, gritting his teeth as John drags his teeth over the hard nub of his nipple. Ripples of interwoven pleasure and pain crackle through his chest and down his spine, cock throbbing in concert with John's ministrations.

Unable to bear it any longer, Sherlock wraps his fingers around both John's prick and his own, rubbing them pleasurably together. John gasps, lips releasing Sherlock's nipple as he looks up fondly. The cascading water is clinging to John's lashes, tiny pearls obscuring Sherlock's view of his eyes. This simply will not do. As one hand maintains a smooth, steady stroke along their shafts, the other reaches up, gently brushing the water off John's eyes. The look of desperate adoration he gives Sherlock is enough to make Sherlock weak in the knees.

He quickens the pace of his hand, thumb flicking over both their heads, pre-come mingling with the water. He bites down, fighting the coiling heat in his belly, desperate to see John come first.

It's sweltering now in the shower, a tight bubble of shared body heat, steaming water and mingling muggy breath, but Sherlock can't get enough of it. Fist pumping furiously now, he tilts his head down and pulls John in for another sloppy, hungry kiss. The sweep of Sherlock's tongue into John's mouth is apparently all he needs to push him over the edge. Sherlock breathes heavily, swallowing John's shout as he comes violently, trembling against Sherlock's body. The hot, sticky texture of his ejaculate floods down over Sherlock's prick, and the faint shift in sensation is enough to force Sherlock to renege control of his body. He pulls away from John's lips and bites down. He's faintly aware of the pulsing of his own orgasm, splattering up between them, before he lets his head droop and his vision go grey and fuzzy.

They stand together, impossibly close, panting heavily for a moment. Eventually, John peels away and rinses his chest and stomach off before gently wiping Sherlock down too. There's a strange, contented hum reverberating through the shower that confuses Sherlock for a moment before he realises it's coming from him. He chuckles and shakes his head, and John quirks an eyebrow at him.

"Nothing, nothing. You've had a long day, what do you say we dry off and get into bed?"

John smiles, warm and guileless, and squeezes Sherlock's hip before turning the shower off and pulling the curtain open. "Sounds nice, but I'm not particularly tired yet."

Sherlock grins. "Good. Neither am I." Smirking, he pulls down a towel and hands it to John before wrapping another loosely around himself, almost as an afterthought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus ends my 30 Day challenge. This has been a lot of fun to write, and it feels good to get back into the habit of doing a bit every day. Thank you all for your lovely comments and encouragement while I worked on this project. If you enjoyed it, you can look forward to me doing the 30 Day porn challenge soon, probably in March ;)


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